


Hart's Divide

by TheSSClexa



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War II, Angst, Clexa, Clexa Endgame, Clexa Week 2020, Day 6, F/F, Feelings, Feels, First Love, Historical AU, Lesbians, Light Angst, Period Piece, Pilot!Lexa, Soulmates, WWII AU, World War II, doctor!clarke, soul mates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-06
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:28:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23044783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSSClexa/pseuds/TheSSClexa
Summary: Lexa's plane is shot down in enemy territory when she wakes up in the care of Dr. Clarke Griffin.
Relationships: Clarke Griffin & Lexa, Clarke Griffin/Lexa
Comments: 269
Kudos: 827





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Happy Clexa week! I hope you all enjoy this World War II fic!
> 
> **Warning** Please note, there are some minor descriptions of Lexa experiencing a gunshot wound in the opening scene.

_Early Spring — 1945 — North Germany_

_/_

She’s bleeding, a lot.

Fuck.

Lexa holsters her pistol. Ten yards away, the soldier she shot rests dead in the field. Her airplane is in a plume of black smoke and Lexa counts her blessings. Not only did she survive the crash, but she killed the Nazi bastard before he could her. Capture is not an option. If that were to happen, Lexa is sworn to take her own life. Thankfully, she didn’t have to, although, she didn’t walk away unscathed either. Lexa touches her stomach and a warm gush of red coats her fingers. The taste of copper inches up her throat and Lexa spits. She doesn’t have much time.

Collapsing to a knee, Lexa retrieves the map from her inside pocket. Her fingers shake, they stain the white sheepskin lining of her leather jacket and red droplets soak into the fabric of the map. As memory serves, there is a territory nearby—an Allied post that should offer her refuge—but Lexa must double-check because there’s no time to make a mistake based on memory.

She mentally calculates where her plane crash-landed, counts the klicks (kilometers), and begins her trek west. They won’t be expecting her, and she hopes the soldiers look before they shoot—as they should. But the war has been forcing recruits out of basic training far too early, sending teenagers into the heart Germany with just a rucksack and rifle. They’re just kids. But that’s the chance she must take because the alternative is to bleed to death on foreign soil. And Lexa is _not_ having that.

Her lungs are on fire as if each breath is stoking an internal flame. Her diaphragm contracts and releases with less and less oxygen. She’s coughing up more blood for concern and her vision fluctuates like a scope unable to focus. It zooms in-and-out and in-and-out, makes her nauseous until she keels over and vomits a mixture of blood, mucus, and bile.

Fallen, Lexa takes the moment to rest. Her face is pressed against the earth. It smells like war—gravel and gunpowder. And by god, she’s sleepy.

_No. Don’t fall asleep._ She tells herself and forces her eyes open. Lexa has learned and experienced so much during her training, but nothing truly prepares the body to die. Lexa thinks of the codes, tactics, and equations to maintain her consciousness and at last, manages the strength to stand and continue her stagger.

One-hundred feet short of a group of patrolling soldiers, Lexa collapses again for what’s sure to be her last breath. Her vision is black, and she cannot tell whether her eyes are opened or closed. Maybe they saw her. Maybe they didn’t, but at least she tried.

Somewhere in limbo, where Lexa’s soul straddles life and death, she thinks she must have crossed over because she catches glimpses of an angel. She has golden wisps of hair and blue eyes direct from heaven and takes Lexa by the hand. Lexa squeezes back—holds on to the angel who must be here to accompany her and ensure safe passage for the sacrifices she’s made for her people.

///

“Dr. Griffin!” The corpsman yells, “we got a live one!”

“What?” Clarke rushes to the front doors of the infirmary. “From where? I didn’t hear of any recent attacks.”

“Way out at the edge of the territory, just on the other side of enemy lines. Got a blood-chit on her—she’s American, so they brought her in right away.”

Clarke looks at the unconscious woman on the stretcher. She’s been shot in the stomach, her aviator jacket is soaked, dripping dark red, and her face is smeared black with a mix of soot, dirt, and blood.

She’s beautiful.

Clarke cradles the woman’s jaw and searches for consciousness. “Hey, can you hear me?” Her green eyes are glazed, she’s seconds from death; Clarke has seen it many times before. “Look at me, stay with me, okay?” She takes hold of the woman’s hand and squeezes it. “You’re safe now.” The woman squeezes back and that’s when Clarke _knows_ she can save her. Clarke turns to her staff, “Jackson, prep the surgery bay and get a blood transfusion started.”

/

The bullet split in half, one portion wedged into the rib cage, the other, lost in soft tissue. Neither situation is ideal; Clarke must break the rib cage to free the first fragment and spends hours searching for the second. Finally, two bullet halves and three bags of blood later, Clarke has the mystery woman stabilized.

For three full days, the brunette sleeps and Clarke checks on her multiple times throughout, measuring her pulse, cleaning the wound herself, and looking for signs of waking. Tasks that all can be done by her nursing staff, but something draws Clarke to the sleeping beauty. It’s almost incessant, but Clarke is the lead doctor, this is _her_ sickbay. She determines her own schedule and no one questions her.

Perhaps it’s the allure of the situation; a mysterious female pilot who crash-landed near their base. Clarke checked the courier pilot schedule—they aren’t due for a mail call for another week. Either way, Clarke soon needs to report this nameless woman to the base colonel, Colonel Jaha. He pays weekly visits to the infirmary and will be here tomorrow.

/

It’s late, the clock ticks a quarter to midnight and Clarke sits at her desk, readying the weekly report for Colonel Jaha. She copies her loose field notes onto a clean sheet of paper: How many new patients in, out, status and expected recovery time; supplies and inventory; bedding and medications; staff hours; her hours. At the bottom, there’s space for additional notes, special circumstances to be reported up the chain of command. Her pen hovers over the blank lines, about to write down the name _Jane Doe_. Just as the tip of her pen dots the paper, Jackson knocks.

“Dr. Griffin?”

“What is it, Jackson?”

“The pilot, she’s awake and she’s asking for you.”

“Me, specifically?”

Jackson nods. “Said she won’t speak to anyone else except the person in charge. And, well, that’s you.”

Clarke doesn’t understand the sudden flutter in her stomach. It’s a small dose of anxiety Clarke hasn’t experienced in years, not since she was called up to the front of the class of medical students (all men) to introduce herself.

Exiting her office, Clarke mindlessly brushes off her white coat. She retrieves the stethoscope from her pocket and wears it around her neck—sometimes she feels naked without it—and proceeds to the recovery wing.

There, Jane Doe sits awake. Leaned back on a pile of pillows, she tips her head in the direction of Clarke’s footsteps and their eyes make immediate contact. The thump in Clarke’s chest increases and she’s unsure why. Her green eyes are penetrating, judgmental even, and Clarke exhales a shaky breath as she arrives at the bedside.

“You’re the one in charge?”

Clarke nods and purses her lips in acknowledgment. “Dr. Clarke Griffin, at your service.”

“Oh, wow…” She mumbles.

Clarke interprets the “wow” as doubt and disappointment. Clarke has heard it all from the infantry of soldiers who question her knowledge and are skeptical of her skills, constantly asking questions: Since when did they put women through medical school? Did they run out of male doctors and start fleeting up nurses? Did they confuse your name Clarke Griffin for a male?

Clarke has thick skin and she certainly isn’t going to let another woman challenge her place in this war.

“What?” Clarke says and crosses her arms. “Disappointed? Were you expecting someone else? A male doctor, perhaps?”

“No—” She closes her green eyes to take in a deep, pained breath.

Clarke knows she’s in a lot of pain, recalled the mass of soft tissue she had to cut through to find that fragment. Skeletal muscle and connective tissue. The broken rib cage. Jane Doe will be here for a while. 

“Here,” Clarke reaches across to the woman’s drip valve, “I’ll increase the dose of the pain meds. It should help, almost immediately.”

“Thank you,” she exhales in relief. “Sorry—it’s true I’ve never met a female doctor and I wasn’t expecting one. But to be quite honest,” she looks up locks eyes with Clarke again, “you’re… beautiful.”

“Oh…” Clarke is speechless, she half swats at the air and senses a warm rise of heat through her neck and ears and cheeks. _Is she blushing?_ “Thank—thank you. You know, I’ve also never met a female pilot.”

“Touché.”

“A courier pilot, I’m assuming?”

She extends her hand, “Lexa Hart, at your service.”

“Lexa,” Clarke parrots, letting the name roll from her tongue for the first time and shakes Lexa’s hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

Lexa’s grasp is sure, strong and confident but not overpowering. Her palm is warm, hot even, and Clarke defaults to her medical duties.

“Are you feeling hot?” Clarke releases and brings her hand to Lexa’s forehead. “Feverish?”

“No… not particularly.”

“M’kay,” Clarke takes her word, but muscle memory has her switching to the back of her hand and holds it for a second longer. “While you’re awake, I’m going to get an update on your vitals, alright?”

At Lexa’s nod, Clarke puts on her stethoscope, plugging both ears. Automatically, Clarke draws down the sheet and unfolds Lexa’s robe—just like she had every day when checking Lexa’s vitals. She removes the gauze and studies the wound, looking for potential signs of infection or internal bleeding. Satisfied, Clarke replaces the bandages before retrieving her scope. She blows a puff of air over the metal, warming it before placing it at the side of Lexa’s ribs.

“Take a deep breath for me, as deep as you can go,” Clarke instructs.

Lexa takes a short, clipped, inhale, clearly hitting a wall of pain much sooner than expected.

“It’s alright,” Clarke reassures, “the pain is normal as your body heals.” Clarke shifts the scope to the opposite side. “Again.”

Expecting pain, Lexa’s inhales slower this time, able to hold the puff of air a second longer.

“Good.”

“How long?”

“You can exhale now,” Clarke unplugs one ear.

“No, I meant, how long should I expect to be here?”

“About six weeks.”

“Six weeks?” Lexa cocks her brow. “For a bullet wound?”

“Yes, so… the bullet split on impact and a portion had embedded itself in your seventh rib, here…” Clarke runs her fingertips along Lexa’s skin, delicately tracing the middle rib that runs across Lexa’s midsection. “And it needed to be broken to retrieve the bullet.”

“Oh,” Lexa replies, “six weeks, that’s um, that’s a lot of time.” She leans further up, concerned. “I have duties.”

“Well, your duties will have to wait because you’re not going anywhere.” Clarke places a gentle hand on Lexa’s shoulder, encouraging her back down. “Plus, I’m not done.” And reinforces her words with a stare.

Curiously, Clarke finds it easy to look Lexa in the eyes yet difficult to maintain; she wants to look away but can’t. A battle of opposing forces equating to a standstill until Clarke voices a quiet, “Please.” It’s then that Lexa drops her eyes, falling back to allow Clarke to finish what she started.

Clarke reinserts the earpiece and places the scope on Lexa’s chest. The thud is loud and strong. It’s a good sign. It’s also faster than normal, but Lexa is also awake now, and Clarke’s gaze tracks up to meet Lexa’s. Her stare is penetrating, and Clarke feels like the one under the scope, being monitored and studied. Lexa’s face is emotionless despite each successive thump, beating faster and faster and faster. It’s at least twice the average beats per minute and Clarke thinks she hears her own heartbeat— it must be her own reverberating back into her ears because what she hears doesn’t match what she sees. Lexa looks calm and cool, sitting absolutely still with even breaths that underscore everything Clarke is listening to. Based on the heart rate, Lexa should be hyperventilating at the least. Clarke swallows and suddenly, Clarke can’t breathe. She’s never had asthma but imagines this is what it’s like, sucking in air with no avail. She’s constrained underwater and finally, Clarke yanks off the scope as if coming up for air in a flooded snorkel mask.

“Something wrong?” Lexa prompts.

“No, no,” Clarke shakes her head. “Your heart shows no sign of weakness,” she blurts and restates, “I mean, you have a strong heart.”

“Thank you?”

“Mm-hm, of course,” Clarke nods in unease.

“Are you done?”

“Yep, uh-huh, I’m done.” Clarke also doesn’t know why she’s speaking like a juvenile. She graduated at the top of her class for fuck’s sake.

“So… can I?” Lexa looks down at her exposed chest and stomach, seeking permission to draw the robe closed.

“Oh, yes, yes, go ahead.” Clarke looks away.

“You know, usually I’d expect a drink first.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Clarke's eyes bulge in embarrassment. “Oh—I didn’t even think, I should’ve asked— wait, I’m _your_ doctor and _I_ completed the surgery, so it’s not like I haven’t, you know, seen uh… them before, and we’re both females here and—”

“I’m kidding,” Lexa says in a quiet timbre. A certain playfulness glints her eyes and she smiles at Clarke.

Clarke doesn’t know when or how she became so flustered, turned upside-down with all her sanity dumped like a pocket full of change. Quarters and dimes, nickels and pennies, they clank and roll on the tile floor. She’s the doctor here. _She’s_ the one in charge.

“It’s late.” Clarke gathers her coins. “You should get back to rest.”

“Wait—” Lexa brushes Clarke’s fingers in a soft swipe, “Could you send a message to my wing commander? So I’m not mislabeled as MIA.”

“Don’t worry, our base colonel will be here tomorrow, you’ll be accounted for in his report.”

Lexa shakes her head, once, unsatisfied. “Could you, personally, send a telegram tonight?”

Clarke squints her eyes, dubious of Lexa’s ask. Clarke doesn’t normally send telegrams; they have a communications officer for that. But the urgency in Lexa’s eyes tells Clarke she’s not lying. Still, the pieces of the puzzle don’t quite fit and Clarke is hesitant to say yes. 

“Please,” Lexa says, “it’s important.”

Slowly, Clarke nods. “Okay.” She gives Lexa her pen and notepad, usually reserved for medical notes, and watches Lexa’s neat cursive flow across the paper in a surprisingly simple message:

31 GOV— WASHINGTON DC

CARRIAGE DROP COMPLETED

COMMANDER LEXA HART, PILOT NO. 371214

Taking the slip, Clarke bids Lexa goodnight.

/

From that night on, Clarke defers Lexa’s vital checks to her nursing staff. Why is she avoiding Lexa like the bubonic plague? —Clarke can’t explain it. Lexa's presence induces a peculiar restiveness within her, one that Clarke’s not familiar with. Her insides hum as if charged with an overcurrent of electricity. It coincides with her proximity to Lexa and any closer, Clarke’s worried she’ll internally combust. Apparently, Lexa doesn’t feel the same way when one week later, she approaches Clarke at the cafeteria lunch table.

“May I sit with you?”

“Huh?” Clarke looks up from her book, buried deep in the world of Bilbo Baggins. She enjoys leaving this world of war and submersing herself in one filled with dragons, elves, and hobbits. This is her third consecutive read.

“Or do you normally prefer to sit alone?” Lexa asks.

“Oh, no—not normally but... never mind, please,” Clarke shifts her tray though there’s plenty of room at the table, “sit down.”

Clarke doesn’t choose to sit alone, her rank and circumstances combined have excluded her from lunch table circles. It’s middle school all over again. She’s not a soldier, who all sit in the far west side of the galley. They laugh and share field stories usually involving blood, guts, and lost appendages. All the female nurses gather on the east side, routinely giggling and ogling the boys. Clarke once sat with the women; the table fell to total silence before two left, then the rest shortly after, peeling away one by one. Understandably, Clarke is their supervisor and her statue as ranking superior makes for no casual conversation at the table. Hence, Clarke sits alone. Just her and Bilbo thus far.

She watches Lexa move gingerly, sitting slowly as to not disturb her midsection. Clarke is impressed she’s up at all.

“That’s a good sign you’re up and moving, I’m impressed,” Clarke says. “How’s the pain?”

Lexa takes a slow sip from her juice cup. “Manageable.”

“The nurses said you’re healing quickly,” Clarke adds.

Lexa dips her head in acknowledgment while spreading a pat of butter on her toast, takes a bite. Silence except for Lexa’s quiet chewing. Clarke begins to feel like she’s staring at Lexa and just before she reaches for her book, Lexa speaks.

“I’ve noticed you’ve stopped coming by, how come?”

“What do you mean?”

“You stopped checking my vitals the day I woke.”

“How do you know that? You were unconscious—unless you were pretending to sleep for three days?”

“Your initials end the day I woke.”

“You read your chart?” Clarke replies in a surprised and accusatory tone.

“Yes. Am I not allowed? It’s my chart,” Lexa points.

“Uh, no, I mean, yes, you are allowed but—” Clarke, again, finds herself at a loss of words. While patients are privy to their medical information, none have reviewed their own charts—that’s Clarke’s job—and certainly, none have questioned Clarke like this. “But—” Clarke huffs, frustrated. “What are you getting at?”

“Nothing,” Lexa minutely shrugs. “I was just curious as to why. Initially, I thought because I was no longer in critical status and therefore no longer require your attention, but I noticed you check on almost all your patients—pausing at each bedside except for mine. Why do I receive different treatment?” Lexa inquires.

“I—didn’t think you noticed, but—” Clarke stutters, struggling to find a reason she has no explanation for. She’s entirely caught off guard, this is not a pleasant lunch, and she immediately wants to dive back into her world of fantasy. The book lays facedown. 

“Have I said something to offend you?”

“Oh, no,” Clarke says immediately, “definitely not. Look—” Clarke finally dares to meet Lexa in the eyes. They’re large and round, and her irises run deep and dense. An Amazon rainforest. Clarke thinks she’s looking into a different world; Lexa has seen things—experienced things—that Clarke is foreign to, and her green eyes are inviting as if asking Clarke to come along. To take her hand and walk through the forest with her. Clarke’s insides shudder. “I’m sorry, I don’t have an explanation for you. And I’m sorry if I gave you that impression. I’m a doctor and I intend to treat everyone equally. So, from now on, you won’t receive anything different. Tell you what, you’ll be my first patient come evening rounds.”

“You do realize I’m not asking for any special treatment.”

“I really can’t win with you, can I?”

“You already have.”

“Okay, now what is _that_ supposed to mean?”

Lexa takes another nibble from her toast; she’s eating it painfully slow. Literally and figuratively, Clarke knows Lexa can’t stomach much but the rate she’s eating is beginning to irk Clarke. Lexa chews slowly, lips and tongue flicking at the shiny melt of butter. Lexa licks her glossy lips and Clarke can’t stop staring at her mouth, thick and full and plush. She thinks she’s waiting patiently for Lexa to answer, but each successive chew unscrews Clarke turn by turn.

“ _Well_?” Clarke prompts.

Finally, Lexa swallows. “I was hoping you’d stop by because I never had a chance thank you.”

“For what?”

“For saving my life. That was you, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you,” Lexa repeats, looking directly at Clarke. “For a second I thought—” Lexa tips her head left-to-right, reconsidering her words, “—for more than a second, I thought I was… that I was—”

“Hey,” Clarke interrupts her and places a hand atop of Lexa’s. The touch is warm, soft and soothing. While Clarke handles patients day-in and day-out, this is different. New, yet comforting.

“Don’t think of it that way,” Clarke says. “You’re here. Now. And that’s what matters.”

Lexa does nothing more than blink to acknowledge Clarke’s words and the moment is over. Clarke removes her hand, reaches for a drink of water though she’s not thirsty and takes a long sip as if hiding behind her cup. The glass shields her. From what? Clarke doesn’t know. The intensity of Lexa’s eyes perhaps. It makes Clarke feel lost. Clarke doesn’t like to be lost. Except, Lexa’s eyes also offer the opposite. Safety and security. That if Clarke travels deep enough, continues to trek through the forest, therein lies a place of shelter. It’s warm and cozy, a cabin in the woods with a warm fire, hot mug, and soft blankets. A place of comfort and belonging. Clarke smirks, a hobbit hole. 

This time, Lexa breaks their eye contact and drifts to Clarke’s book.

“You must like that book,” Lexa says.

“Yes…” Clarke squints. “How do you know that?”

“Broken spine. Dog ears. Worn edges. And the initials “C.G.,” Lexa says in a keen tone.

“Well, aren’t you observant,” Clarke says, reaching for her book and proceeds to hold it at her chest like a prized teddy bear. “What do you have against The Hobbit?”

“Nothing. I’ve never read it.”

Clarke exaggerates a gasp. “It’s wonderful, you have to read it.”

As much as she cherishes the book, Clarke slides the book across the lunch table, offering to lend it to Lexa.

“What’s it about?”

“A hobbit on a journey.”

“A _hobbit?_ ”

“Um, like a human-halfling, they’re short and small and live in the hillsides.”

“Like a dwarf?”

“Yes—and no. A hobbit is different than a dwarf. Although, there are also dwarves in the story. Wizards and dragons, too.” Suddenly, Clarke realizes she’s revealing much more about herself than intended. Aside from not having any friends, she doesn’t get out much. They’re in the middle of a war, in enemy territory, and Clarke is confined to basecamp. Only armed soldiers are allowed outside the perimeters and inadvertently, her passion for science fiction and fantasy is spilling out. Anymore and Lexa will probably think less of Clarke and not take her medical knowledge seriously. “It’s fantasy, obviously. All fiction… if that’s something you’re partial to...”

Gradually, Lexa reaches for the book and skims the synopsis. Her eyes blink at a gradual pace, and she chews at her inner lip. It makes Clarke nervous; someone else judging her favorite book.

“Interesting…” Lexa mutters, “I’ll give it a read.”

“What do you normally read?”

“I’ll read anything, but lately, I’ve been reading poetry.”

“Poetry? How romantic.”

“Dante’s Inferno.”

Clarke chokes. “Oh, god. Sorry—” Coughs. “My mistake.”

For whatever reason, Clarke’s reaction generates a small smile on Lexa’s lips. Lexa looks at her with particular adoration and it makes Clarke blush. Clarke still doesn’t understand it; the hold Lexa has on her. Again, Clarke reaches for that glass of water to hide behind and takes a long swig.

“Well, thank you, for lending me your book. I’ll make sure to get it back to you soon.”

“Oh, there’s no hurry. I’ve been meaning to move on to another anyway. Plus, we just received another shipment of donations from home. Our library is beginning to overflow.”

“We have a library?” Lexa’s ears perk.

“Well, it’s not exactly a library, more like a quiet room with a few sofas and boxes of books. It’s on the north end of the building, opposite of the rec room. Has no one oriented you?”

Lexa shakes her head.

“Oh, well, since now I’m in a need for a new book, would you like to accompany me?”

“I’d love to.”

While Clarke easily slides and stands from the bench, Lexa struggles to find the strength and balance. Automatically, Clarke moves to help her by placing an arm around Lexa’s waist and taking hold of Lexa’s hand. Clarke has helped numerous patients stand in the exact same way but when Lexa’s body presses against hers for balance and slender fingers intertwine with Clarke’s, Clarke’s heart flutters—skipping a beat before starting up faster.

Clarke gulps. “Got it?”

Lexa nods, “I think so.”

Slowly, Clarke removes her arm from around Lexa’s waist but when her fingers loosen, Lexa tips and plants her hand on the table for stability.

“Or not…” Lexa murmurs.

“Here, just take my hand then.”

They hold hands to the library. The gesture is nothing out of the ordinary. Looking around, nurses are assisting the injured everywhere from pushing wheelchairs to teaching them how to use crutches, soldiers are learning how to walk again. Clarke worries her palm is getting too sweaty or she’s gripping Lexa too tightly. In retrospect, it’s Lexa with the tight hold to maintain her footing and the walk, though short, is strenuous for her. Lexa’s breathing is clipped and a light gleam of sweat shows on her forehead.

“Do you want to take a break?” Clarke offers.

“No,” Lexa shakes her head. “I know you said six weeks, but I’m determined to shorten that to four.”

“I don’t know why you’re in such a hurry. Surely, there must be other courier pilots.”

“There are but—” Lexa takes an extended breath, “—I have specific duties that are… difficult to fulfill.”

It’s a vague answer but Clarke doesn’t want to ask Lexa any more questions provided her state. Walking has proven to be difficult enough and paired with talking, Clarke is unsure how Lexa is managing the pain.

“It’s good that you’re up, but I’d also encourage you to not push it,” Clarke says.

Lexa doesn’t respond beyond a prolonged blink; Clarke has a feeling Lexa is going to do what she wants regardless of doctor’s orders. She’s stubborn, Clarke can tell—much like Clarke herself. And Clarke opts to stay silent for the remainder of their short walk and focuses her attention forward.

“Here we are,” Clarke announces sarcastically.

The room is illuminated by a single, tall and skinny window. The glass is old and filters a yellow glow into the library—if you could call it that. There’s a single bookshelf lined with unopened boxes of donated books. More sit on the floor. A sofa in one corner and the other, two armchairs separated by a small coffee. Despite the sad state of the library, Lexa’s eyes shine gold in the dusty light. For whatever reason, the glint of excitement on Lexa's face makes Clarke happy.

“I know it’s not much,” Clarke shrugs. She releases their handhold—somehow already missing the warmth of Lexa’s hand—and mindlessly shoves them in her coat pocket.

“It doesn’t need to be much,” Lexa says softly. “It’s perfect.”

That’s where Clarke leaves her, Lexa in the library, ruffling through boxes of books. Come evening rounds, that’s where Clarke rediscovers her.

“So, I make it a point to see you as my first patient of the evening, only to find your bed cold and vacant,” Clarke announces herself.

Lexa's face is buried in an untitled book—the cover has been torn off from wear and tear, and Clarke can’t tell what she’s reading. She’s curled up tight in the armchair with a small pile of books on the coffee table. At her feet, two opened boxes rest on the floor, one filled with recreational items like cards, board games, and ping-pong paddles. The other, more books.

“Hm?” Lexa peeks here eyes overtop like a cute little worm in an apple. “Oh, hi.”

“Hi,” Clarke smirks. “It’s um, it’s time for your check-up,” Clarke says, crossing the room with stethoscope in hand.

“Already?” Muscle memory has Lexa glancing at her wrist for the time, but there’s no watch there. She then scans the room for a clock but there’s nothing other than the fading glow of daylight to give her a sense of time. “Clearly I lost track of time. My apologies.”

“Oh, no, don’t apologize. Please, if I could sit and read all day, I would too,” Clarke replies.

“Do you… want me back in bed for the check-up?”

“No, you can stay here. I just need to look at the wound and grab your vitals again.”

Clarke conducts her exam in silence. Her nerves have slightly dissipated since last week as if her body was building immunity to Lexa; the longer she’s around her, the easier it becomes. Lexa isn’t so scary after all. In fact, she’s pleasant.

“I enjoyed it,” Lexa says while tying her robe.

“What?”

“The Hobbit.”

“You… finished it?”

Lexa nods and retrieves the book from the coffee table. Looking at it, Clarke now assumes it’s her “read” pile and the box at her immediate feet is her “need-to-read” pile.

“Told you I’d have it back to you soon.”

“Thank you.” Clarke accepts her book back. Their fingers graze at the exchange and Clarke wonders if she’ll have another chance to hold Lexa’s hand—if Lexa needs help going back to bed. It’s a strange thought for Clarke and she has trouble identifying the _why._ Why she’s simultaneously drawn, yet cautious of Lexa. Like a flame, Clarke wants to get closer and warm her hands, but afraid to get too close, worried she’ll get burned.

“Oh, and um,” Lexa looks down at the box full of recreational supplies, “I found this box and thought it might serve better in the rec room. Of course, I’d normally carry over myself, but…”

“I can get that.” Clarke kneels to pick up the box and one item, in particular, catches her eye: a chess set. A really nice chess set that appears brand new. Clarke retrieves the rare item and considers keeping it for herself. She hasn’t played since college and overseas deployment doesn’t exactly provide room for leisure materials. As soon as she volunteered to aid with the war, she was shipped off the very next day and instructed not to bring anything non-essential. They almost denied her personal med kit, claiming that her unit should be pre-stocked with any medical supplies needed.

“Do you play?” Lexa asks.

“I do,” Clarke thwarts a smile. The potential to play again is exciting. “Do… you?”

“I do.”

They smile, both knowing what’s to come and without any further words, the match is set.

“Now?” Lexa proposes.

“I—can’t, now. I need to finish my rounds, but certainly afterward?”

Lexa dips her head. “Of course.” And returns to her curled-up position in the armchair. “You know where to find me.”

Clarke doesn’t remember being this enthused since she received acceptance into medical school, grinning so much even Jackson notices.

“What’s with a smile?’”

“Oh—nothing, I just… it’s silly.”

“Please. I won’t judge.”

“Okay, fine. You remember the pilot, from last week?”

“You mean the _one_ female who was brought in from patrol and the total opposite of what we usually receive?” Jackson says with sarcasm.

Clarke rolls her eyes. “Yes, her. Well, apparently, she plays chess and I haven’t played in years, so… it’s just nice to finally… have someone. I guess.”

“What about me?” Jackson feigns a pout.

“Oh, you know what I mean,” Clarke swats at the air, then leans into Jackson for a friendly peck on the cheek.

At a quarter past eight, Clarke finishes her rounds. She returns to her office to briefly summarize her notes and shrugs off her coat. With all duties completed, Clarke would normally be looking forward to a long shower and a good book before bed. Her sleeping quarters are adjacent to her office, connected by a door similar to two hotel rooms. Except it’s nothing like a hotel but a barracks room with just the basics: one small wardrobe, a twin mattress, and a nightstand. Though, Clarke considers herself lucky. The remaining medical staff share barracks bunked three high plus a communal bathroom.

Tonight’s impromptu meeting has Clarke both excited and nervous. In fact, she’s so anxious that she questions what she’s wearing and if she should change. “God, I’m being ridiculous…” Clarke mutters to herself while looking at the mirror, untucking her shirt before re-tucking it. It’s not like Lexa has a chance to change. Finally, after untucking her shirt, again, and quickly brushing her hair, Clarke heads towards the library.

Lexa is exactly where Clarke left her, curled up in the same position earlier with another book. Lexa has since cleared the coffee table and set up the board game in preparation for their match.

Sensing Clarke’s presence, Lexa closes her book and smiles at her.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone. I'd like to wish everybody well during Pride month. This weekend of events has impacted me greatly. Physically, I'm okay but am emotionally torn as humanity divides. I hope that everyone is staying safe and well. 
> 
> As a reminder, this fic is set in the 1940s and I try to reflect (what I imagine to be) the thought-processes during the time period. Also, cliffhanger warning.

“Light or dark?” Lexa asks.

The question is not as simple as it seems. Traditionally, the person with the light or white pieces goes first, usually decided by random means of chance such as the flip of a coin. The fact that Lexa is giving Clarke the option is telling—and Clarke’s answer will hint at her preferred strategy.

Clarke is also entirely overthinking this.

“The light pieces,” she responds and takes a seat at the opposite armchair.

Accordingly, Lexa spins the board so that the light pieces are in front of Clarke and for five minutes, Clarke ponders her first move.

“You did say you played, am I recalling that correctly?” Lexa prompts.

“It’s not speed chess,” Clarke scoffs defensively. “What? Do you have somewhere to be?”

“And to think you work in the field of medical emergencies, certainly you have the ability to make haste decisions.”

“Oh hush,” Clarke finally reaches out and moves a pawn forward two cells. It’s the very last pawn on the left side, affront the castle. Castles are Clarke’s favorite. Back in college, she’d use them so much they nicknamed her “Princess of Castles”. Every other piece would remain nearly untouched as she wreaked havoc with the pair.

Lexa opens with the knight, and just like that, it’s Clarke’s turn again. Naturally, conversation ensues; Lexa attended Brown University and studied mathematics; Clarke received her doctorate at John Hopkins. Lexa is an only child, so is Clarke. And the more they conversed, the less Clarke felt alone in this world. As a woman pushing her way through a patriarchal society, she rarely met another with the same motives and outlook. Many of her girl friends from home were content on finding a man to marry and starting a family—beyond content, it was their sole goal to marry and bear children. While having a family always rested in the background of Clarke’s mind, she felt compelled to do more in this world. And that decision landed Clarke here, in the middle of the war-zone.

“So… you’re engaged?” Lexa asks for clarification, then moves her bishop from the far end to take one of Clarke’s pawn.

“Really?” Clarke questions the move and takes Lexa’s bishop with her castle. Perhaps it was a baiting move. “And _no_ , I didn’t say I was engaged.”

“Then, you told him no?”

“No… I didn’t say no, either…” Clarke sighs, thinking back to Finn. They were together through medical school and it was assumed they get married after graduation. But then the war came, and Clarke saw her chance to do more. So, she ended things with Finn, at least temporarily, at least until the end of the war. But that was nearly two years ago.

“I get a letter from him every so often. I try to write back… least let him know I’m alive. But, sometimes…”

Lexa shifts a pawn up a single cell, and it threatens Clarke’s castle. Automatically, Clarke withdraws it three cells down.

“Sometimes, what?”

“Sometimes I’d just wish he’d move on. Find someone else, and I’ve told him that. But he insists on waiting for me, for the end of this war, which, at this point, who knows…”

“Hm…” Lexa hums, “might be sooner than you think.”

“Why? Did you hear something?”

Lexa shrugs, almost nonchalantly. “Call it a hunch.”

Clarke scoffs. She doesn’t believe in hunches, only scientific facts, research, and results. Looking at Lexa, she’s returned her attention to the game with her chin resting on one hand, the other on her lap.

“So… do you have someone at home?” Clarke asks. As beautiful as Lexa is, she must have a significant other anxiously awaiting her return.

Before she answers, Lexa presses forward with her knight, targeting Clarke’s castle, again. “Fuck…” Clarke mutters. She doesn’t like being on the defense like this and strategizes a way to turn the game. And yes, that was easy bait Lexa set out that made Clarke’s castle vulnerable.

“Me? No,” Lexa replies. “I don’t have someone at home.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, that’s unexpected.”

“How so?”

Clarke shrugs. “You’re so… well achieved, so educated and driven. Certainly, those are attractive qualities.” Clarke pauses, still studying the board and mentally runs through the strategies and scenarios. “Plus, you’re so pretty, I can’t imagine it’s very difficult for you.”

Lexa smiles, “I’m flattered, but you’d be surprised,” Lexa replies, softly glancing at Clarke, then reverses the question on Clarke. “Although, are you sure you’re describing me and not yourself?”

“How do you mean?”

“You’re clearly educated and driven,” Lexa replies, “yet you deferred your answer to marry.”

“I mean... Finn’s a nice guy,” Clarke continues, “but do you ever feel like you’re meant for something else in this world?”

Clarke looks at Lexa when she asks this. Lexa's eyes are shadowed by the dim lighting, a single lamp they’ve set by the game. It’s difficult to read her expression and Clarke doesn’t know if she’s being judged—like how all her other colleagues judged her when she told Finn she’d get back to him—or if Lexa agrees.

“Always,” Lexa replies.

Clarke’s heart wants to burst, finally, some who sees eye-to-eye with her, and Clarke feels safe to completely spill her candor without fear of criticism. An entirely newfound sense of relief and security.

“Can I be honest with you?” Clarke asks.

“Please.”

Before her question, Clarke decides on a move: castling. It’s a bizarre and uncommon move in chess, and Clarke simultaneous swaps her king and castle.

“Mm…” Lexa hums in satisfaction. “Good move.”

“To be honest, and I’ve never told anyone this, but I just don’t think I believe in love.”

Lexa’s eyes shoot up. “What do you mean you don’t _believe_ in love?”

Clarke shrugs. “I just don’t buy it.”

“You mentioned you were an only child, were you orphaned as well?”

Clarke chuckles, “No, not that kind of love. Unconditional love is a given. I mean the… falling head of heels kind. When my girl friends would squeal over boys. Hell, I had girl friends squealing over Finn and I tried to give him away.”

Lexa’s finger hovers cautiously over her queen, contemplating moving her, but finally decides to shift her knight lateral and down, no doubt re-strategizing based on Clarke’s “castling” move.

“Perhaps he’s not the right person?” Lexa replies.

Clarke shakes her head. “No… I mean, I don’t know. I think about “love” and what it’s supposed to be, right? And, as a doctor, as a scientist, I know that it’s simply hormones feeding into the body’s natural instinct to reproduce.”

Noticing that Lexa favors her knights, Clarke brings her rook out to chase. Lexa sighs, and Clarke is unsure whether it’s because of what she said, or what she did.

“I’m sorry, but I have to disagree with you.” Lexa pushes one pawn up with her index finger to defend her knight in case Clarke decides to take it. Then, Lexa looks up at Clarke in a certain directed stare. “I believe love goes far beyond sex.”

They’ve been playing for over two hours, both still with most of their pieces. And that’s when Clarke decides to take Lexa’s knight with her bishop. It effectively ends their conversation and starts a quick-paced killing spree on the board. Clarke’s castle for Lexa’s knight. Two pawns and the move of Lexa’s queen gets Clarke’s castle. Clarke’s knight and bishop for Lexa’s queen. Use of the king as a pressuring pawn. Lexa’s remaining knight, bishop, and castle for Clarke’s queen.

The match ends in a stalemate, neither have enough pieces to do anything.

“Good game,” Lexa ticks her eyebrow at the board. “Rematch tomorrow night?”

Clarke smiles. “You’re on.”

Automatically, they begin to replace the pieces in preparation for tomorrow’s game.

“I can’t remember when the last time I had a match end in a stalemate,” Lexa comments.

“Why? Used to losing?” Clarke quips.

Lexa drops her jaw, feigning offense. “And here I thought I was starting to impress you.”

“You are,” Clarke smirks.

When all the chess pieces have been reset, Clarke stands and automatically offers a hand to help Lexa up. “May I help you back to bed?”

Lexa nods, graciously accepting the aid. While Lexa is focused on her balance and stability, Clarke can’t help but notice some of Lexa’s features at this proximity. Very likable and attractive features from the cut of her jawline to the delicate hollow of her collarbone, and how her hair is thick and wavy and tumbles over her shoulders. Clarke can smell her; floral, earthly, and… something else. Clarke resists the urge to lean closer and press her face into Lexa’s hair. Normally, Clarke would ask Lexa about her hair product—except Clarke knows exactly what Lexa uses. It’s the standard, military stock they issue every patient in this hospital and reminiscent of a distant tar factory. And, Lexa does _not_ smell like that. As they approach the recovery wing, Clarke dismisses it, turning her attention to help Lexa to bed. Instinctively, Clarke fluffs the pillow around Lexa’s head and pulls the sheets over, practically tucking Lexa in.

“Have you been comfortable enough? Do you want any extra pillows or blankets?” Clarke asks.

“Comfortable as I can be.” Lexa's eyes drop, hinting at her strained midsection. “Thank you, though. Good night, Dr. Griffin.”

“Oh, you can just call me Clarke.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, please. I get “Doctor Griffin” twenty-four, seven. It’d be… nice to hear my name once in a while,” Clarke admits.

Lexa nods with a twinkle to her smile. “Goodnight, Clarke.”

“Good night, Lexa.”

Clarke goes to bed with a big smile. In fact, her cheeks hurt from smiling _so_ much this evening. Content, Clarke tugs the blankets around her shoulders and curls into a pleasant ball. There’s something special about Lexa. Something she can’t pinpoint. The evening has left Clarke warm and fuzzy and the thought of seeing Lexa tomorrow is comforting. It lulls Clarke into pleasant dreams and she sleeps better than she has since arriving into enemy territory.

/

An unspoken schedule is established well into the week and they are inseparable, together during breakfast, lunch, and dinner. And, as soon as Clarke is finished with her evening rounds the remainder of the night is spent in the library. Two more nights end in a stalemate when Lexa is the first to claim victory on the third night. Out for revenge, Clarke claims the fourth. By Thursday, they are tied at one win apiece, except the tiebreaker will have to wait until the next day because Clarke must prepare her report for Colonel Jaha’s visit tomorrow.

“Sorry, I can't tonight,” Clarke apologizes. “The Colonel will be here first thing tomorrow morning and I have to finish a report.”

“Of course,” Lexa dips her head an understanding way, “I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

Clarke is leaned against the doorway of the library and for reasons unknown to her conscious mind, her body refuses to move, her eyes fixated on Lexa. The lighting is dim and the same, lone lamp illuminates Lexa like a makeshift spotlight on stage with the background darkened, irrelevant. The only thing that matters in the room is her.

She looks cozy, reading with an added throw Clarke gave her earlier this week. At first, Clarke thinks how nice it would be to switch places with Lexa. To sit in peace and disappear into the words before her. But that desire quickly shifts to a thought that somewhat puzzles Clarke; she wants to sit _with_ Lexa. Snuggle into her and pull that blanket over them both. It’s that moment when Lexa realizes Clarke is still standing in the doorway.

“Is there something else, Clarke?”

“Oh, um… no. Sorry, I was just thinking how comfortable you looked,” Clarke says, shifting her weight from foot-to-foot. “Be lying if I said I wasn’t jealous.”

Lexa looks at her, smiles an auspicious smile, and returns to her book.

/

The following morning, Colonel Jaha is not in Clarke’s office by 0800 hours, which is odd because the Colonel is never late. He is adamant about stopping at Clarke’s office first for a verbal run of the weekly report before reading it himself, then shadowing Clarke for a set of rounds. Clarke pokes her head out the office door, looking down the long hallway. Nothing. And after twenty minutes, Clarke is done waiting, she has patients to see. So, she leaves the report on her desk if Jaha arrives during her absence and Clarke resumes her day as usual. First stop, Lexa.

Clarke rounds the corner into the recovery wing towards Lexa’s room. Although she knocks briefly, Clarke enters without verbal cue—just like she has every morning without issue—and Lexa is always there, awake and expectant. Except for today, when she’s stunned by the sight of the Colonel Jaha standing at Lexa’s bedside. Clearly, they were amid conversation because they both pause at Clarke’s apparent interruption.

“Oh—I’m sorry, I…” Clarke twists her grasp of the doorknob, trying to reverse her movements, “…didn't mean to interrupt…” And begins to peel out of the room.

The scene is suspicious. _What is Colonel Jaha doing in here? And what does he want with Lexa?_

“Dr. Griffin,” he says in a deep, booming voice, “I was just on my way to see you.”

Clarke nods. “Of course.” Somehow, she feels like she’s in trouble.

“Let’s head back toward your office,” Jaha says, gesturing a hand for Clarke to exit first.

Worried, Clarke’s gaze meets Lexa’s for a split second, but all Lexa does is send her a smile. A reassuring one, which helps settle Clarke’s stomach, somewhat. The circumstances are still strange. Perhaps Jaha was eager about a shipment and Lexa had additional information. But that explanation doesn’t quite calculate either. Lexa has been here for nearly two weeks, any information she has would be obsolete. Clarke’s mind races, what if Jaha wants to send Lexa on some secret death mission and fly an aircraft deep into Nazi territory. Can he do that? Last Clarke heard, the Japanese were launching suicide bombers or “kamikaze” pilots, who were deliberately crashing their planes into Allied warships. Would the U.S. deploy their people this way?

Upon entering Clarke’s office, Jaha closes the door. “Dr. Griffin, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t make mention of what you just witnessed.”

“What? Your meeting with Lexa?”

“Precisely.”

“Okay…”

“I don’t anticipate you have any issues with that, do you?” Colonel Jaha says in a serious, near threatening tone.

“Mm-nm. No, sir.”

“Excellent.” Colonel Jaha takes a seat and simply goes about business as usual. “So, tell me about the weekly update?”

Clarke plays along all morning, pretending she didn’t walk in on a secret conversation, and her curiosity evolves into an obsession. She _must_ know what Jaha wanted with Lexa. Finally, after escorting the colonel off base, Clarke makes a beeline for Lexa.

 _Knock-knock._ This time, Clarke waits before entering.

“Come in.”

Timidly, Clarke pokes her head in.

“Clarke?” Lexa says, sounding both surprised and happy. She looks at the clock ahead. “You’re early, it’s not lunchtime yet.”

“Ah—no, I was just…” Clarke inhales in a deep breath, enters the room, and takes a seat at the foot of Lexa’s bed. “I can’t help but…” Struggling to find the right words, Clarke just says it. “What did Colonel Jaha want with you?”

“Why?”

“Well, you’re still my patient, under _my_ care, and if he’s tasking you with anything, it’s supposed to go through my approval,” Clarke replies, unsure why she’s using her authoritative voice. “And I don’t appreciate the secrecy because you’re in no condition to go back out there, regardless of what the Colonel says and—”

“Clarke.” Lexa lays a gentle hand on Clarke’s, stopping her mid-sentence. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Oh. You’re not?”

Lexa shakes her head. “The Colonel was just mentioning to me that they found another pilot for my route, and I can take the full six weeks to recover, okay?”

Lexa smiles to reassure her words but Clarke is not convinced.

“No…” Clarke shakes her head, “that doesn’t make sense. They send us the courier routes. Jaha asked me to not mention—”

“Clarke.” This time, Lexa squeezes her hand and it grounds Clarke like never before. Lexa’s green eyes reel her in. “Clarke, you need to trust me on this. Just know that I’ll be here for the full six weeks, okay?”

“But…”

“Please, trust me.”

Clarke’s eyes rove left-to-right. She _really_ doesn’t like this position, blinded and kept in the unknown. She keeps looking at Lexa for more information. But Lexa holds her tongue as if sworn to confidentiality and defers to brushing small, simple, circles atop Clarke’s hand. The long, drawn, silence has Clarke looking down at their hands, where they’re connected, and without thinking, Clarke upturns her hand to intertwine fingers. She doesn’t know why she feels so bound to Lexa, why she’s so protective of her, and why she doesn’t want to let go of her.

“Can you at least promise me you’re safe?” Clarke asks.

“Yes. I promise.”

 _Knock-knock_.

Clarke releases Lexa’s hand immediately and scoots back as if they were kids caught kissing. The reflex baffles her because they were doing nothing wrong. And, again, Clarke reminds herself that she’s the one in charge and reports to no one except Jaha, whom she’d _just_ escorted out.

“Mail call!” A young soldier readily hands Lexa two envelops, then looks at Clarke. “Oh, hey Doc! I believe I have something for you too.” He digs through his nap sack of correspondence and plucks another envelope out. “Ah, yes, here you are, Doc,” and hands Clarke the letter in a chipper manner before tipping his hat out the door. “G’ day, ladies.”

Clarke stares at the letter with mixed feelings. It’s from Finn. Though she still cares for Finn and harbors fond memories stemming from medical school, the war has changed her. And him. Since Clarke deployed, Finn has been needier and needier. At first, his letters were patient—he said he’d wait for her until the very end. But lately, while the letters remain polite, he has been eager for an answer. It isn’t fair for Clarke to continue to use the war as an excuse. She feels stuck. Postponing the inevitable, Clarke tucks the letter in her interior coat pocket. She’ll open it later, maybe tomorrow or this weekend, or next weekend…

“Usually letters from home bring joy,” Lexa comments and nods at Clarke’s pocket. “You don’t seem very joyous.”

Clarke sighs and rubs her forehead. “Can we talk about something else?”

“We don’t have to talk at all,” Lexa replies in a simple manner and returns to her book. Novels, biographies, and memoirs have since migrated from the library, stacked at Lexa’s bedside. They’re just shy of toppling over and Clarke has never known someone to plow through books like this. Lexa is brilliant.

Smiling, Clarke takes a few minutes for herself, sitting at the edge of Lexa’s bed to mull over her own thoughts. It’s not awkward by any means and Lexa’s quiet company has transformed into a sense of calm. Her presence is soothing and that same, peculiar thought wanders into Clarke’s mind; she wants to be closer to Lexa. Thinks about how nice it would be to curl into Lexa’s serenity and sneak in a nap.

“Doctor Griffin!” Jackson yells. Her name echoes from down the hallway and judging from the tone, it’s not good.

“I'm here!” Clarke answers.

Jackson comes bursting through the door. “Doc, we just received word of an attack, wounded soldiers are en-route.”

“Shit. Gather up the staff, Jackson. I’ll go prep the surgery bay.”

There’s an ebb and flow to war. After almost a month of quiet routine, Clarke is propelled back into the chaos. Bullet wounds and missing limbs. Separating those who have a chance from those who are too far gone. Clarke works until she reaches a point of numbness and functions solely on autopilot. For three days, the wounded are sent in by the truckload, beds are filled, and cots overflow the hallways. Finally, by the end of the week, the influx begins to taper, and Clarke gets a second to breathe.

Retiring to her quarters, Clarke takes a _long_ and hot shower. As hot as her skin can bear, because she’s still numb. So much death; it sours Clarke. She resents humanity as the only species on earth with such capability. Closing her eyes, Clarke lets the water run and run and run. Through her hair, across her face, and down her arms as if she can rinse death from her hands.

The faucet squeaks off and Clarke steps out into the heavy steam. She gathers her dirtied scrubs and coat, about to toss them in the laundry basket when she feels an envelope through the pocket: Finn’s letter. She had forgotten about it. Exhausted, Clarke places it aside, yet again, for another time.

Dressed in her pajamas with full intent to sleep, Clarke finds herself twisting and turning. Her mind is haunted with images of war and despite the fatigue, residual adrenaline circulates her veins and Clarke gives up on sleep. It’s nearly one in the morning and Clarke decides to go to the library to pick out another book. It’s been almost a week since she’s been and misses it—misses Lexa. The respite of their late-night games and conversations. Tonight, she doesn’t expect to see Lexa, but as Clarke approaches, a sliver of light cuts the darkened hallway like a slice of yellowcake.

“Lexa?”

“Clarke,” Lexa looks up from her position; she’s sitting cross-legged on the floor and using the coffee table as a makeshift desk. Pen in hand, Lexa is referencing a small pile of opened letters on her left and pauses her writing. “And here I was, beginning to miss you.”

Clarke smirks. It’s nice to see Lexa. “You should be in bed, resting.”

“So should you.”

“That’s a lot of letters,” Clarke says, purposely ignoring Lexa’s comment and changes the topic. “I thought you didn’t have anyone from home?”

“A cousin.” Lexa's eyes follow Clarke across the room and remain fixated as Clarke browses the bookshelf, tracing each title with her fingertips.

“What does your cousin do?” Clarke looks over her shoulder, making small conversation. The fact that Lexa is writing return letters makes Clarke feel slightly guilty. She thinks about Finn’s letter, gathering dust on her desk.

“She’s a teacher,” Lexa replies. “Oh—that was a good read.”

Clarke’s index finger pauses at the spine: _A Tree Grows in Brooklyn._

 _“_ It’s about a girl with high aspirations in a challenging environment,” Lexa summarizes and hints at Clarke’s relevance. “I think you’ll like it.”

Accepting Lexa’s recommendation, Clarke pulls it from the shelf. She takes a seat in the armchair, adjacent to Lexa on the floor, and turns to the first page. While Clarke reads, Lexa continues to write. Pages and pages, sometimes flipping through the previous letters and it seems more like work than familial correspondence. Lexa is buried in the letters, reading and rereading.

“You’re so dutiful about that,” Clarke comments.

“What?”

“Writing home,” Clarke flops the book down on her chest, “and here I am, reading… procrastinating.”

“The letter you received last week, you haven’t opened it yet, have you?” Lexa says, quick to point Clarke’s indecision.

“No…” Clarke shakes her head. “I know I owe him an answer, but I just don’t know what to say. What should I tell him?”

There’s a long pause when Clarke hopes Lexa would just give her the answer. They stare at each other and something inside Clarke tells her—compels her—to listen to whatever advice Lexa has to offer. Because Lexa is different, unlike all of Clarke’s friends from home, her mother included, who have been pushing Clarke in the direction of domesticity since pre-college.

“Clarke…” Lexa exhales softly, “I—really don’t think I’m in a position to tell you what to do.”

“Why not?” Clarke sinks in disappointment. “But… you’re my friend, and I value your opinion.”

“Exactly. As your… friend, I shall stay impartial.”

“That doesn’t make any sense, all my other friends tell me I should’ve married him before the war.”

“And yet you didn’t. So what good is my opinion relative to your other compadres?”

“Lexa, why are you being so difficult about this. I just want to know what you’re thinking.”

Lexa sighs, audibly this time, and puts her pen down. “If you insist, all I can offer you is the truth.”

“Being?”

“That you need to acknowledge it. State your feelings,” Lexa brushes lightly at her chest, “heart over head. Regardless of societal consequence.”

It’s the most honest response Clarke has ever received, and it points to an answer Clarke has always had—and known. Deep within, while she never lied to herself, was more afraid of letting others down and in doing so, gave them false hope. She doesn’t need to open Finn’s letter to draft a reply. After a small stretch of silence, Clarke is satisfied with their conversation and changes the subject.

“Would you care for a game?”

Though it’s late, they are both very awake.

“Sure,” Lexa replies softly. She begins to gather the letters, diligently organizing them in order before folding and wrapping them in a rubber band. As Lexa stands, she winces and hisses in pain. “Sss…”

Clarke’s instincts have her jumping to Lexa’s aid—she hasn’t followed up with Lexa in almost a week, though Lexa should be near healed by now. Any pain could be an indication of a rising infection.

“Where does it hurt?” Clarke asks, placing a hand on Lexa’s side.

“The opposite side… oddly,” Lexa replies. “Every so often I get this shooting pain—sometimes when I’m not moving at all.”

Clarke relaxes her worries and shifts her palm to the opposite rib, “Here?”

“More toward the back.”

Nodding, it’s exactly what Clarke would expect. “That’s normal,” she assures Lexa and gently begins to massage the area. “Sometimes when the body is recovering, the uninjured side—the strong side counter to, bears the load and becomes overburdened.”

She presses her fingertips into Lexa’s back, fully hugging Lexa against her for leverage and traces the muscle fiber toward the spine. Clarke repeats this motion for several minutes until she feels the tension release.

“Is that better?” Clarke asks, loosening her hold.

“Significantly.”

They’re close, eye-to-eye with inches between their faces. Both of Lexa’s hands rest on Clarke’s shoulders; Clarke’s have fallen to Lexa’s hips as if they’re about to slow dance. Neither move and there’s a long pause. It’s not awkward but peaceful, a moment of serenity despite the war outside. They share this space and time, it’s intimacy, and something deep within Clarke wants to hold onto it forever. Or, perhaps, it’s Lexa she wants to hold onto forever.

Lexa is the one who breaks the moment, letting her hands fall down Clarke’s arms, pausing at the elbows and giving them a brief squeeze before shifting her attention to the board game.

They play in silence save for the distant bombs sounding from afar, sporadically lighting the sky like a quick flash of lighting. Except, the world beyond the walls is irrelevant and all the matters is the battle before them. Clarke has captured one of Lexa’s knights; Lexa, one of Clarke’s castles. And they’ve since danced around, chasing its pair. The king is forgotten and they’re playing a game tailored to each other’s respective favorite. Clarke yawns, it’s her turn, and she blearily eyes the clock. It’s a quarter ‘til three.

“Would you care to pause?” Lexa offers, gently brushing her fingertips atop Clarke’s hand. “I’m sure you have a lot of work in the morning, and to be frank, I’m getting tired.”

Nodding, Clarke looks at Lexa and her sleepy face with lazy eyelids and slightly puffed cheeks.

“C’mon,” Clarke stands, and extends a hand to help Lexa up, “I’ll tuck you in.”

Lexa exhales an amused respire and accepts Clarke’s hand. Their fingers stay linked for the duration of their walk. The hallways are empty and still, they are alone.

“Storm’s brewing,” Lexa comments, looking outside. They’re walking through a long passageway with large, multi-paned windows. “Rain will be here in a day or so.”

“How can you tell?” Clarke’s gaze follows Lexa’s out the window, there’s nothing but the clear night sky. More bombs flash in the far, far, distance. Ones they can’t hear.

Lexa pauses and steers them closer to the window. “Look past the immediate sky, past the war,” she instructs, tipping her chin upwards. “As far as you can see, there’s a grey smear—those are the storm clouds. And the air is getting heavy,” she inhales, “it sits deep within, stays with you.” Lexa spares a fleeting glance at Clarke. “I love the rain.”

“Is that why you became a pilot?”

“What, the rain?”

“Your… love for the sky. Fly into it, be in the heart of the clouds?”

Lexa furrows her brow as if she’s never been asked this question and she must think about it. Her fingers fiddle lightly in Clarke’s.

“I… never thought of it that way, but I suppose. Yes.”

They stay for a minute longer and Clarke makes good on her words; she tucks Lexa into bed, drawing the covers over her shoulders and pulling a spare pillow to support her back.

“Good night, Lexa.”

“Good night, Clarke.”

Crawling into bed, Clarke’s lips curl into a sleepy smile with Lexa at the front of her thoughts. The warmth associated with Lexa’s presence, knowing that she’s just down the hall and Clarke will see her tomorrow. Again, Clarke drifts into a restful slumber.

/

It’s been raining for three days; heavy drops pelt the windows and Clarke and Lexa are still playing the same game of chess. By no means has it been delayed by interruption or indecision but it has fallen background to their conversations like the ambient waves of a radio set on low. They share, inspire, and challenge each other. It’s a richness Clarke has never known. They talk of war, a topic no one had cared to ask Clarke’s opinion, whether it’s because of her vocation or because she’s a woman, Clarke doesn’t know. Probably both.

“What do you think we should have done?” Lexa asks.

“I think we should have evacuated the town before the attack, warned the civilians.”

“But that would have given away our knowledge. The intelligence gathered would have been in vain and provided the enemy time to escape as well.”

“Still,” Clarke shakes her head, “it’s not worth the innocent lives. Farmers, artists, teachers."

“Victory stands on the back of sacrifice.”

“A life is a life to me,” Clarke expresses her truth, “and though I’m here, assigned to save the lives of Americans, I would do the same for any life that falls in my hands. Even a Nazi soldier.”

“Really?” Lexa quirks her brow and thinks of the soldier she shot prior to her arrival; how she killed him without regret. Perhaps he was a father or a brother, certainly a son, and how she’d left him dead in the field. She wonders if Clarke would think less of her if she knew the truth.

“Really,” Clarke nods with assurance.

The evening ends with another stalemate but they don’t start another game. Instead, they sit in the company of the rain pitter-pattering against the roof and windows. Lightning and thunder have replaced the bombs and gunfire, the thunderstorm offering an unspoken temporary ceasefire. No doubt the trenches are flooded and Clarke imagines all the soldiers—on both sides—digging in the mud to relieve the water and moving all the ammunition under the cover while they stand and let their bodies soak. It makes her sad, she wants the fighting to stop. The suffering and sacrifice.

/

Clarke doesn’t recall falling asleep but a rumble of thunder causes her eyes to dart open, wide and alert, and her heart thumps in a manner of fight or flight. Looking around, she orients herself and is curled up in the library’s armchair with a blanket draped over her shoulders. It’s the same blanket she provided Lexa weeks ago. Her heartbeat further settles when she sees Lexa in the chair opposite. She’s reading and quietly flips a page, unaware that Clarke is observing her.

For some time, Clarke studies the woman before her until she begins to feel guilty as if she were taking advantage of Lexa’s perceived solitude. Clarke glances at the clock, it’s half-past three. She stirs underneath the blanket, purposely drawing Lexa’s attention, and extends her limbs in a wide stretch.

“You’re still up,” Clarke says, yawning.

“The rain keeps me up.”

It’s counter to the general understanding that the rain is soothing and lulls people to sleep. It’s probably what put Clarke to sleep.

“I thought you said you loved the rain.”

“I do,” Lexa replies quickly, seeing where her statements contradict. She pauses, then licks her lips in slight hesitation as if preparing to tell a story not known by many. “When I was growing up, I loved to read and stay up past bedtime devouring books under the covers.”

“Okay…” Clarke doesn’t see anything out of the ordinary in that statement.

“In the… orphanage, we weren’t supposed to be up past bedtime and rounds would be made throughout the night to ensure we were all still in bed. Except when it rained. Our dormitory was in a separate building, across the courtyard—a very large courtyard. And when it rained, they seldom checked on us, and I knew I had all night to myself.” It’s then that Lexa looks up from her book to meet Clarke’s eyes. “Since, I’ve become accustomed to staying awake while it rains.”

“Is that why you love the rain then?”

“Yes.”

Clarke nods, stays quiet without reply as she absorbs what Lexa just told her. There’s so much in the unsaid, and Clarke’s not sure she privy to the rest of Lexa’s childhood. She doesn’t ask—doesn’t pry—and Lexa smirks before returning to her book. She sits comfortably under Clarke’s watch, serene and content until Clarke drifts back asleep.

/

Colonel Jaha is late, again. Frustrated, Clarke taps her pen on the report, she had spent a lot of time on it. After the storm, they discovered several inches of water in the basement where some of the medical supplies were stored. Shipments of sterilized gauze and dressing had to be thrown away, soaked and spoiled. Mostly, Clarke is upset at herself for not thinking about the basement earlier, and at the least, had someone check on their inventory. But in the lull of the storm, without any incoming wounded, there was no need to fetch more supplies. Once the rains abated, the fighting started again, and with that, more injured bodies. They’ll be busy in the coming days.

Leaving her office, Clarke has a feeling Jaha might be speaking with Lexa. She knocks this time and waits patiently on the other side of the door.

“Come in,” Colonel Jaha replies. “Doctor Griffin, I had a feeling it might have been you.”

“And I had a feeling you might be here,” she replies.

“I was just checking in with Ms. Hart,” Colonel Jaha tips his head, “see how she’s doing.”

Clarke is perturbed by Jaha’s actions, why didn’t he ask Clarke first? As Lexa’s doctor, Clarke feels sidelined as if her medical opinion matters not. She crosses her arms, clear in her annoyance.

“Since you’re here, I’d like to formally request Ms. Hart’s early discharge,” Jaha states.

“What?” Clarke shakes her head. It’s been five weeks, Lexa should be here for at least one more week. “Why?”

Colonel Jaha pauses as if to carefully phrase his next sentence, but Lexa speaks for him.

“Something… pressing has come up, and they need a pilot.”

“When?”

“Now.”

“ _Now._ As in today?”

“Yes,” Lexa replies softly. “I was telling the Colonel that I felt comfortable flying, with your permission of course.”

Clarke doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t understand why there’s a knot forming in her throat and heat behind her eyes. She’s not prepared for this and stands speechless, torn in her response.

“It’s very simple, Dr. Griffin.” Jaha stands and approaches. “We just need to know if she’s well enough to fly.”

Clarke still doesn’t want to answer, not until Lexa prompts her with a soft call of her name.

“Clarke?”

“Medically speaking,” Clarke inhales a shaky breath, “yes. While there are risks, they’re minimal.”

“Excellent.” Jaha beams with a smile, oblivious to Clarke’s inner struggle that grips her.

“When… do you leave?” Clarke asks.

Though the question is meant for Lexa, fucking Jaha responds. “She’ll accompany me when once we’ve completed the morning rounds Dr. Griffin. And I do appreciate your flexibility on this. Your country,” he adds, “thanks you.”

Jaha gestures them out and Clarke feels numb. She goes through the morning rounds with little care, barely mentioning the flooded basement that had upset her earlier. Lexa’s sudden and imminent departure eats at her, creates a pit filled with conflict and unrest. By the end of the rounds, Clarke practically throws the report at Jaha and leaves him alone in the office.

“You can read it for yourself, Colonel. I—need to gather Ms. Hart’s discharge papers,” she says. It’s not a lie and gives Clarke more reason to return to Lexa.

When Clarke arrives at Lexa’s room, she’s not there. It’s a quiet and empty scene: her bed is made, hospital gown neatly folded, and correspondence organized. What’s missing are the piles of books that had accumulated over the weeks. Clarke just about runs to the library as if Lexa might already be gone. There, she finds Lexa putting away the borrowed books and outfitted in the clothes she was admitted in. Khaki trousers and her aviator jacket. She looks handsome.

“Lexa…” Clarke exhales her name with a breath of relief.

Lexa turns, “Clarke, are you alright?”

Clarke’s not crying—not yet—she’s doing everything she can to hold it back, her face scrunching and twisting in discomfort.

“Yeah… I’m fine.”

Lexa’s face shifts to concern, the delicate arc in her brow reveals the amount of regard Lexa holds for her, further weighted in her gaze.

“I’m sorry for the abruption,” Lexa says, stepping into Clarke’s space. “I was looking forward to another week with you, as well. Perhaps after the war is over, we could meet for a game of chess?”

Clarke nods, she likes that idea.

“Okay,” Lexa replies softly with a wry smile.

A single tear falls from Clarke’s left eye and she presses her palm into it as if to force it back before wiping it aside. “Sorry, sorry. I—don’t know why I’m being like this.”

“Shhh…” Lexa shakes her head as if it pains her to see Clarke cry. “There’s no need to apologize,” she says and reaches to gently wipe the tear from Clarke’s cheek with the pad of her thumb.

“I—this might sound odd, but can I hug you?”

“Of course,” Lexa nods.

Without hesitation, Clarke steps forward and wraps her arms around Lexa’s shoulders. She sinks into the embrace, nuzzles her face into the crook of Lexa’s neck where her hair meets the fur lining of her coat and Clarke lets herself take in a long, deep breath. No one has ever had such a profound impact on her like this. No one. Clarke holds onto Lexa far longer than intended, her body protests each passing second and she wonders if Lexa will think it strange. Finally, Lexa shifts and loosens her hold. Thankfully, she doesn’t go far and tips her forehead to rest against Clarke’s. 

“I should be going now, Clarke,” she whispers.

Clarke nods, looking down when her face flushes and she feels a round of tears coming. Lexa cups her face with both hands this time and wipes each cheek. With a wry smile, Clarke runs her hands down Lexa’s arms and rests them at Lexa’s wrists. Clarke doesn’t know if she tugs Lexa in, or Lexa leans in on her own accord, or both.

They kiss.

It invites them together in a way that was unsatisfactory through the prolonged hug. Everything in the kiss feels _right_. It construes and places resolve in Clarke's feelings. And when it ends, Clarke wants to lean in again, recapture the moment when realization befalls her: She is kissing another woman. No, this cannot be. Clarke stumbles back, pulls away with eyes wide in disbelief, and Lexa is caught off guard by Clarke’s sudden absence. Eyes at half-mast and still seeking that second kiss.

“Wha… what are you doing?” Clarke shakes her head and corrects herself. “What are _we_ doing?”

“Clarke… it’s alright,” Lexa replies.

“What, no.” Clarke takes two more steps back, distancing herself from Lexa. Her thoughts and rationale race, the textbooks in medical school flood to the front of her mind. The academia, the years of schooling and late nights studying alone at her desk. The pages in the book flip, Clarke reads them, memorizes them for practice. There was a term and it surfaces. “No… it’s not alright, it’s—” Clarke swallows, she’s never said it aloud, “—it’s _queer_.”

Lexa tilts her chin up and grinds her jaw. It’s not the first time she’s heard it.

“Yes,” Lexa replies. She acknowledges it with confidence, takes full ownership. Lexa’s next set of words is a direct blow to Clarke’s heart and has her questioning the foundation of her beliefs. “It’s also love.”

Clarke shakes her head in doubt and distress, further overloaded by Lexa’s confession. When Lexa reaches for her, Clarke shies away as if Lexa’s touch would cause her to combust, “Don’t… touch me.” She can see how much her words hurt Lexa, how she immediately wants to rescind them, but she’s also tipped too far the other way and keeps falling.

“Goodbye, Lexa.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clexa endgame. I swear.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, update!
> 
> Initially, chapter 3 was supposed to be the last chapter. Evidently I have poor planning skills and there will be one more. Happy reading!

“Doctor Griffin? Doctor Griffin?”

Clarke is startled awake by Jackson and her hands grip the edges of the armchair. “What? What is it? What’s happened?” Clarke automatically expects another attack, of more bloodied soldiers and lifeless bodies.

“Nothing, sorry…” Jackson apologizes, putting a calm hand atop of Clarke’s. “I didn’t mean startle you. I—didn’t you see you for morning chow and when I didn’t find you in your office, I figured you might be here. It’s almost eight.”

Clarke nods and takes a moment to gather herself.

Since Lexa’s departure just over a month ago, Clarke hasn’t been able to sleep. Her mind is restless despite how tired her body is. In addition to losing sleep, she can hardly eat. An unsettling knot sits in the pit of her stomach. Initially, Clarke denied everything and lied to herself. Kissing another woman was unfathomable, except she did—and she liked it. The most troubling thought was that she wanted _more._ More of what? Clarke is unsure, but for almost a month she forced the images out of her head. Fought her heart, buried herself in mindless work, and steered far from the library as if it were haunted. In a way, it was, because that’s where they spent the most time together, the chess games and deep conversations, and where they kissed.

One night, Clarke was particularly fitful. Even though she had been up for nearly forty hours and her body begged for sleep, her thoughts churned and churned. She was so tired she could cry and at the brink of exhaustion, she succumbed to the one place she knew would bring her solace. The library. Her feet pitter-pattered down the long hallway, the floors cool against her bare feet while her heart pounded uncontrollably as if Lexa would be there. Peering in, the library was exactly the way she left it, and Clarke made her way to the armchair Lexa previously occupied. The throw blanket Lexa used, the same one Clarke gave her, was draped neatly over the back. Slowly, Clarke curled in the chair and unfolded the blanket over herself. She clutched it tight against her chest, inhaled, and finally, let herself think of Lexa.

Sitting there, alone in the dark, Clarke admitted the truth to herself. She missed Lexa. Lexa’s company provided a warmth Clarke never experienced before. It filled a space Clarke didn’t know existed, and Lexa’s mere absence unearthed a profound sense of longing. It was agonizing. Worse, not only did she miss Lexa, but regretted the way they parted. Clarke thinks of the cold words that fell from her mouth. It eats her, and if Clarke could go back in time to change it all, she would. She would hug Lexa longer, wish her well, and hope to see her again someday after the war. But that opportunity has passed with no means to regain it, and for the first time in her life, Clarke is lost.

Last night would have been the fourth consecutive Clarke spent in the armchair, each night more restful than the last. If it weren’t for Jackson waking her this morning, she would have overslept.

“Thank you,” Clarke replies to Jackson. “Go ahead and start the morning rounds without me, I’ll catch up.”

He nods but stays kneeled, “If I may Dr. Griffin, maybe you should write her a letter?”

Clarke’s eyes widen, she’s taken aback, suddenly suspicious of Jackson and his knowledge of her. Did he know? And if so, how? Clarke was certain she and Lexa were alone when they kissed.

“Again, I don’t mean to startle you,” he says. “Do you recall a soldier by the name Nathan Miller. He was admitted about eight months ago?”

“Nathan Miller?” Clarke digs in her memory but can’t put a face to the name. “No, I’m sorry Jackson… there’s just too many.”

“It’s alright,” Jackson nods. “It’s best not to be too noticeable. Safer that way.”

“Jackson, what are you saying?”

“I write to him. Miller.”

Clarke knits her brow together, “And he… writes you back?”

“Yes.” Jackson smiles at the thought. “After the war, we have plans to go out west. Together.”

The realization is both a shock and a relief. Clarke is speechless, overwhelmed by Jackson’s subtle confession while grateful to be sharing his company. There’s no need for her to hide but the opposite, someone to confide in.

“There’s supposed to be courier coming in today,” Jackson says cheerfully.

Clarke has ignored the latest postal drops, altogether avoiding the airstrip and hanger bay—anything related to an aircraft. Although, she can’t ignore the planes when they fly overhead, can’t un-hear them soaring across the sky. Maybe it’s Lexa, maybe not, either way, her heart never fails to skip a beat. Once, Clarke couldn’t resist and spared a glance out the window. She watched a plane disappear into the clouds and continued to gaze outside for over an hour. Before she knew it, she was engrossed in memories of Lexa and overcome with tears. The tumult of emotions went from her own guilt to Lexa’s earthshattering words: _It’s also love._

For Clarke, love was a fairytale she never believed. At least not until now—until her heart wrenched so hard it turned her inside-out. She felt gutted, laid bare by her own feelings for Lexa.

“Thank you, Jackson, again. I appreciate the notion.”

Jackson smiles, nodding before he leaves to start the morning rounds.

/

Clarke never catches up with Jackson that morning. Instead, she spends almost the entire day crafting a letter to Lexa. The trash bin by her desk overflows with crumpled pieces of paper. She picks through them, searching for a past thought and uses it for reference, attempting to write the perfect letter. In it, she apologizes profusely before confessing her feelings, revealing how the past month has been extremely difficult. Finally, Clarke asks for one thing: forgiveness.

Clarke rereads the letter for the millionth time, contemplating whether to start again but outside, she hears an airplane engine crank and roar to life. The courier pilot is leaving; she’s out of time. Quickly, she folds and shoves the letter in an envelope, addressing it to _LEXA HART._

“Hey, wait!” Clarke runs across the airstrip with a letter in hand. The engine is loud and it’s windy as fuck, she’s afraid the pilot won’t hear her. “Wait!” Clarke continues to shout and waves her arms out. He still doesn’t see her, and she shrugs off her white coat and waves it about. Clarke is sure she looks like a madwoman, with her hair whipping everywhere, half-clothed, and screaming. Thankfully, the pilot notices and he hops out of the cockpit to greet her.

“What can I do you for Miss Doctor—Doctor Miss?”

“Doctor Griffin,” Clarke responds and hands him the letter, “Can you deliver this for me please?”

Taking it, he immediately notices there’s no address. “There’s no address on this.”

“I know. It’s to Lexa Hart, she’s a courier pilot, like you.”

He gives her a skeptical glance. “She?”

“Yes, _she._ ”

“I don’t know any female pilots myself, only heard of a few,” he responds and tucks the letter into his inner jacket pocket, “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thank you!”

/

For another month, Clarke anxiously waits for a reply. It doesn’t help that the courier is different each time, their schedule and routes are sporadic depending on the tide of war. Currently, Germany is losing and therefore becoming more unpredictable, attacking with no real tactical advantage other than to take as many Allied lives as they can before admitting defeat. Just a few days ago, they received word that Adolf Hitler had killed himself. Committed suicide by shooting himself while taking refuge in a bunker located in Berlin. While the rest of the base rejoiced, knowing the end was near, Clarke was unphased. Still overcome with heartache and Lexa at the forefront of her mind.

It’s a Thursday afternoon when Clarke hears the familiar sound of a plane fly overhead. She hurries to the airstrip and is even more excited to see that the pilot is female. It’s not Lexa, but surely the inner circle of female pilots is small. Clarke is certain she’ll get an answer one way or another and she greets the incoming pilot upon landing.

“Dr. Griffin, I presume?”

Eagerly, Clarke nods when she watches the pilot reach into her jacket to retrieve something. Clarke’s heart beats wildly until she sees that it’s her own letter being handed back to her, slightly worn, and tattered in one corner.

“This passed through several people before it was given to me,” the pilot begins, “I know every female courier pilot there is to know, but I’m sorry, there’s no _Lexa Hart_ in our rankings. Are you sure she flew for us?” She points to a silver diamond-shaped badge with wings on her chest, insignia for the Women’s Airforce Service Pilot, aka WASP. “Did she wear one of these?”

Clarke swallows, slowly taking her letter back. “Well, she’s definitely a pilot. She crash-landed and was here for weeks. But—” Clarke studies the emblem and thinks back to the last time she saw Lexa in her aviator jacket. When Clarke hugged her and buried her face in the collar just before they kissed. Clarke takes a second too long, clearly distracted.

“Doctor?”

“Uh, no, she didn’t have one of those.”

“Sorry,” the pilot responds and shrugs, unaware of how devastating the news is to Clarke. “But I do bear some good news.”

“Oh?”

She retrieves another letter from the opposite inner pocket addressed to Clarke. It looks official, akin to the orders that brought her here. Clarke opens it right away and as suspected, it’s a set of instructions direct from Colonel Jaha to begin disbanding the clinic. They will no longer be receiving supplies but the opposite, empty cargo planes are scheduled to arrive, ready to be loaded with equipment, supplies, and soldiers. It’s Clarke's duty to immediately discharge all soldiers in her care and prepare them for transport. 

Five days later, Germany officially surrenders. It’s a Tuesday, May 8, and it will forever go down in history as VE Day or Victory in Europe Day. For Clarke, it’s a mad scramble. Troops are lined up along the airstrip and crammed in the hanger bay, awaiting their flight home. Worse, and something Clarke never anticipated, is managing the dead. Bodies kept in the morgue or in temporary cemeteries are exhumed, all to be reburied on American soil. Clarke cross-references all the remains, double-checking their dog tags to ensure names are properly matched with the bodies. Though it’s not part of her job description, it’s tedious work and someone must do it.

The sudden rush of discharges keeps Clarke busy, demanding upwards of 18-hour days. By the end of the week, the entire medical ward has been demobilized. Only Clarke and a few medical staff remain, they are the last to be shipped out. Alone and in her barracks room, Clarke begins to pack her sparse belongings, folding and stuffing her clothes into a standard-issue olive green duffle. The thought of going home seems foreign to her. For two years, this has been her home, and Clarke is unsure what she’s going back to. Her mom? Certainly, not Finn. Before Lexa’s departure, Clarke had written him a final letter with an answer. It was no. She didn’t want to marry him; she doesn’t love him. It’s evermore clear now, each passing day without Lexa is tormenting. She’s never missed anyone like she misses Lexa. It’s a deep ache within as if their souls forged a link that’s been severed. 

When all her things are packed, the last thing she holds is the letter she wrote to Lexa, contemplating whether to throw it away. Clarke hovers it over the trash bin when she changes her mind and slides it into her pack. She looks around the room one last time and leaves. Before heading to the hanger bay, she makes one final stop at the library. Looking around, Clarke is shocked to find it in a state of disarray, rummaged through like a garage sale. The soldiers, upon leaving, must have picked through looking for books to take home. Despite the library being a public space for the veterans to freely access, Clarke feels as if her privacy has been invaded. It was a special place for her. When she sees both the chess set and blanket untouched, Clarke exhales a breath of relief. There’s no need to give it any thought and Clarke takes both the blanket and chess set. She puts the pieces away, shoving the gameboard in her pack, and keeps the blanket in her arms.

Slowly, Clarke walks to the airstrip with her duffel strapped to her back and the blanket balled up against her chest like a childhood keepsake. The plane awaits with its side-hatch open and actively loading. It’s no commercial flight, there’s no accommodating staircase to get on and hard metal seats are mounted directly against the inner walls of the plane. They curve in the direction of the bulkhead, forcing passengers to sit in a forward-leaning angle. Clarke abandons sitting in the intended seat and instead, opts for the floor. She puts her pack down as a makeshift pillow and sits against it with her legs out. Several others follow suit, Jackson included when he flops his identical duffel down next to Clarke’s and lays back against it. Unlike Clarke, he has a big smile on his face.

“So, what are your plans when we get home Dr. Griffin?”

“No plans.”

“Oh,” Jackson nods, making a small pouting face on Clarke’s behalf. “No news from your… pilot?”

Clarke shakes her head. “No. What about you?”

“California,” he replies.

Jackson’s smile grows. It’s infections and Clarke can’t help but mirror it. Jackson’s future endeavors are clear, and not only does it make her happy for him, but it gives her hope.

“That’s right,” she says, “out west.”

“Yeah. We’re thinking San Francisco.”

“Why San Francisco, relatives?”

“No,” Jackson shakes his head. “Not exactly relatives but we heard—” he drops his voice slightly, “—we heard there’s a community there.”

“Community?”

“Yes.”

Clarke reflects on the notion of community in a general sense. Growing up, she’s never belonged in a certain social group, particularly with the other girls. From elementary to university, and certainly not medical school thereafter, Clarke was a bit of a loner. She was also an only child, and Clarke became accustomed to being independent. While her mother worked as a nurse at the Annapolis Emergency Hospital, her father was a marine engineer and sailed aboard merchant's vessels as chief engineer, gone for months at a time. Between her mother’s oddball hospital schedule and her father at sea, Clarke entertained herself with books and the outdoors. They lived right at the water’s edge and Clarke spent a lot of time at the bayside, reading up until sunset. 

It was her absolute favorite when her father returned home because he would take Clarke fishing. They’d go deep into the Chesapeake Bay and spend days there. Clarke was never the squeamish type (perhaps that’s why she loves being a surgeon), she used to come home with overalls smeared in dirt, blood, and fish guts, and a big smile on her face. This was also how she attended school, with a dirty face and messy hair. Compared to the other girls, she stuck out like a sore thumb. Despite both her parents being well employed, Clarke looked like a homeless child from the boonies. She didn’t have any friends; her dad was her best friend. Just before her eighteenth birthday, Clarke received news that still devastates her to this day. Her father’s vessel had been caught in a storm and presumably sunk. She imagines his body, floating lifelessly at sea.

The sudden roar of the airplane engine starting brings Clarke out of her somber thoughts, pulling her back into this reality. It’s incredibly loud, even after the doors shut, the engine sounds like it’s inside with them and quiets everyone’s conversations. While some bid their time with a deck of cards and others, a book, Clarke leans back on her pack next Jackson. Before she knows it, she’s drifted asleep with her head on his shoulder and hugging the blanket like a teddy bear.

She has weird dreams, disturbing even. Though the war in Europe is over, Clarke dreams of more war. More bodies in various states of mortality, and those images mix with the loss of her father. They flash sporadically in her mind until it arrives on the day she first met Lexa. She watches as the soldiers carry Lexa’s near-lifeless body into the hospital and in the dream, Clarke fails to save her. Clarke panics and begins to shake Lexa’s shoulders, urging her to wake up.

“Wake up, wake up. Doctor Griffin.”

Clarke is woken by Jackson, who is lightly shaking her by the shoulders. His actions likely transferring to her subconscious and manifested itself in the same manner she was trying to wake Lexa.

“Sorry,” he says, “it looked like you were having a nightmare. You were flinching and muttering, then you started shouting and… drew a few eyes.”

Clarke nods, sitting up slightly. She’s unsure whether she’s been asleep for a few minutes or a few hours. The engine roar has tapered to a constant purr and she glances out the window. It’s a nice day with clear blue skies and white fluffy clouds. Clarke thinks of Lexa and wonders if she’s flying now, navigating the same view. Clarke also thinks about what the other pilot told her, that there is no _Lexa Hart._ It doesn’t make much sense because Lexa is definitely a pilot, perhaps just not a courier pilot. What reason would she have to lie? Before, Clarke was too occupied with work to give it much thought, but now, as she sits on her plane ride home, she has nothing but time and broods over Lexa’s circumstances. Colonel Jaha’s involvement is particularly suspicious, and Clarke comes to a single conclusion. Lexa isn’t who she says she is. This active concealment of her identity means she must be an agent or a spy.

/

A small fanfare greets the plane upon landing and while many are reunited with their loved ones, Clarke has a meeting scheduled with Colonel Jaha. She suspects he’ll have additional orders for her and she’ll be reassigned to Japan where the war is not yet over. Clarke bypasses the small crowd in a brisk walk knowing there isn’t anyone here for her. No hugs, no kisses, no flowers or balloons, it’s just her, and that’s just fine.

“Doctor Griffin!”

Clarke turns to what will likely be the last time she’ll hear her name from Jackson. He’s accompanied by another soldier outfitted in his full-dress uniform with their arms swung over each other’s shoulders. To everyone else, they’re nothing but two war boys, brothers reunited from the same platoon. Clarke knows differently.

“Nathan Miller, I presume?”

He nods his head and reaches to shake her hand. “Jackson speaks very highly of you, it’s nice to meet you, well, again, under these better circumstances.”

“Likewise,” Clarke says, smiling at the couple.

“I just wanted to say thanks for everything,” Jackson says and lunges forward for a big hug.

It’s unexpected and a bit smothering, but Clarke wraps her arms around Jackson and hugs him back.

“Bye, Jackson,” she says and looks to them both, “and good luck in San Francisco.”

“If you ever find yourself there, know that you’ll always have a place to stay.”

Clarke nods, “May we meet again.”

She watches Jackson and Miller walk across the airstrip and disappear into the sunset. It’s a picturesque moment, fitting for a storybook and it further redefines love before Clarke’s eyes. They look perfect.

Alone again, Clarke makes her way from the airstrip to the base’s main building. There, she finds Colonel Jaha in his office and she knocks before entering.

“Colonel Jaha?”

“Doctor Griffin, come in.” Jaha gestures for her to take a seat. “Excellent work with the decommissioning of the clinic, your swift efforts brought those boys home early.”

Clarke nods, “I was just doing my job.”

“I have something for you.”

Jaha opens his drawer and retrieves a manilla envelope. He unravels the thread in small figure-eights, flips the envelope over, and out slides a metal badge. It resembles a silver-dollar, roughly the same size, but it’s engraved with a silver cross and two entwined serpents.

“Congratulations, Doctor Griffin, you’ve been awarded the Medical Combat Badge. This is to accompany your official discharge papers. Thank you for your service to this country.”

 _Oh._ Clarke was expecting a set of orders directing her to about-face, get back on that plane, and head to Japan. She’s dumbfounded to be so quickly released from duties. And it’s not what she wants. Though Lexa is at the forefront of her mind, she realizes it’s a very selfish thought, and Clarke would rather be in a place where she can be saving lives.

“Thank you, Colonel, but what about the war in Japan?”

“Still ongoing,” he replies.

“Pardon me, but I was expecting a reassignment, not a discharge.”

“I see.”

“Is there a way I can make a request? I’d like to volunteer.”

“I’m sorry, Doctor Griffin, but that’s not an option.” Jaha folds his hands and pauses before speaking. “Initially, you were to be reassigned to Hiroshima, but I had those orders canceled.”

“Why?”

“I was informed of some… intelligence. You’ve done your time and service, Doctor Griffin, it’s best for you to go home now.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

Jaha clears his throat and inhales a steep breath. “Let’s just say there’s an airstrike planned for certain cities in Japan, Hiroshima is one of them.”

“So,” Clarke shrugs, “there were airstrikes all the time in Germany, what difference does that make?”

“Not like this—not of this caliber, and I cannot guarantee your safety, even if you are within a US or Allied-occupied base. Please.” Jaha pushes the envelope toward Clarke.

There’s more inside and Clarke reaches in to retrieve a stack of cash. While the stack is small, the bills are large, and it’s the most amount of cash Clarke has ever seen in person.

“Consider it a bonus for a job well done,” Jaha says. “And if there’s anything I can do for you, please let me know. A letter of recommendation, perhaps?”

Clarke shakes her head, she’s not interested in a letter of recommendation. “No, but thank you, Colonel.”

“Are you sure? A physician of your skill and experience shouldn’t go wasted, it’s the very least I can do.”

“My mother is a nurse at the emergency hospital in Annapolis—there’s a place for me there.”

Jaha nods. “Well, if there’s anything else I can do for your Doctor Griffin, don’t hesitate.”

Clarke hesitates, pretending there’s nothing else when Jaha stands and begins to escort her out.

“Actually, Colonel, there is something.”

“Yes?”

“Do you recall Lexa Hart?”

“The pilot?”

Clarke nods. “Is there a way you can put me in touch with her?”

“I—I’m sorry, but I have no means of reaching her.”

“Really? You don’t,” Clarke presses, “because I find that hard to believe, _Colonel._ ” Clarke eyes Jaha’s uniform, specifically his rank insignia and awards.

“Courier pilots aren’t exactly my wheelhouse,” he replies.

“Look, I know she wasn’t _just_ a pilot.”

Jaha drops his voice down to a whisper. “It doesn’t work that way, Clarke.”

“Then tell me how it does work because I’m not afraid to do it myself. Just give me a name.”

Jaha shakes his head. “I don’t have any names, the sources varied. They operate outside of our command structure.”

“There’s absolutely nothing you can do?”

“What business do you have with her anyway?”

“It’s… personal,” Clarke replies. “Please. It would mean a lot to me.”

He takes a moment to think. “There might be someone I can ask, but it’s a stretch.”

A speck of hope glimmers like a distant start and Clarke reaches for it. “Anything.”

“It’ll take some time,” Jaha says. “And I can’t make any promises.”

“I understand.”

/

_Four months later._

Clarke drops the anchor, letting it sink until the line goes slack before making a few turns around the bitt. She’s on her father’s boat (technically it belongs to her now) in the middle of the Chesapeake and preparing for another day on the water. This is what she does on her days off from the hospital, she out fishing, except it’s less about the catch and more about the memories. The surroundings instantly take her back to her fondest paternal memories, and to a time before she knew what war was—what humanity was capable of. About a month ago, the US dropped two atomic bombs on Japan, one on Hiroshima and one on Nagasaki three days later, killing over a hundred thousand, which forced an unconditional surrender. Now, Clarke understands why Colonel Jaha denied her request to go to Japan, even if she weren’t in ground-zero, she would have been affected by the radiation.

It’s early fall and the trees are just starting to turn, a multi-colored spectrum from red to green adorn the shoreline. There’s a slight morning bite to the air, but it’ll warm as the sun comes up. After casting a few lines out into the water, Clarke settles down in the cabin with a book. She often thinks of Lexa and what she’s doing, what she’s reading, and if Lexa ever thinks of her. There’s been no word from Colonel Jaha, though Clarke knows he hasn’t forgotten about her. He was undoubtedly busy leading up to the bombings, and she expects a letter from him soon.

At sunset, Clarke navigates her way home with three striped-bass to show for the day. It’s incredibly peaceful and unlike the emergency room, no one on the water is in a hurry. A tugboat passes by and the captain aboard gives her a friendly boating wave. Clarke waves back. Pulling in, Clarke ties up the boat and begins to clean the fish, slicing them with precision and tossing the innards back into the water.

“Doctor Griffin.”

Clarke freezes.

“Colonel Jaha.” Slowly, she sets the knife down and makes a poor effort to wipe her hands on her shirt and pants, intent on shaking Jaha’s hand. “Sorry, I—my hands are dirty, I wasn’t expecting you in person.”

“No need to apologize,” he replies. “How have you been?”

“Alright,” Clarke says, her response is generic and automatic. “Yourself?”

“Very well, especially now since the war is over.”

Clarke nods, imaging his relief when the end of the war was officially declared.

“The information you had asked for,” Jaha begins, “it wasn’t easy to come by, but I did manage the name of a contact. Titus Blackwell with the OSS.”

“OSS?”

“Office of Strategic Services, an organization that runs parallel to the military and conducts covert missions and intelligence operations. You’ll find him in Washington DC.”

“Thank you, Colonel, thank you so much.”

That evening, Clarke packs her bags and leaves the next day. She asks her mom to deliver her notice to the hospital that she won’t be returning, further apologizing for her sudden departure. 

“But I don’t understand, Clarke, honey,” Abby says to her. “Where are you going?”

“I’m sorry, mom, but this is something I need to do and you have to let me do it,” Clarke replies while stuffing her green duffle with the essentials.

“But _what_ is it?”

“There… was someone I’d met when I was in Germany. And I didn’t have the means to reach her, until now.”

“Was that why Jaha was here?”

“Yes.”

“Wait… _her_?”

“Yes,” Clarke looks at her mother in the eyes and there’s a moment of pause.

“I don’t understand, who is this person, Clarke?”

“Someone… special to me, mom.”

Clarke knows her mother needs no further explanation when her pupils dilate in understanding.

“Oh,” Abby exhales softly.

Clarke is unsure what her mom thinks or is going to say, and frankly, Clarke doesn’t care because it changes nothing about the way she feels about Lexa. Unexpectedly, Abby’s lips curl in a small smirk and she leans forward to hug her daughter.

“Well, then she must be _very_ special.” Abby kisses Clarke on the forehead. “I hope you find her.”

“Thanks, mom.” Clarke hugs her mom, again, tighter this time before leaving.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The reunion.

_Washington D.C._

Clarke looks across the street at the Office of Strategic Services and contrary to what she imagined, it’s not a single tall building but a cluster of small stone and brick buildings. She enters through the central office and marches up to the front desk.

“Hi, I’m looking for Titus Blackwell.”

The front desk secretary pushes her glasses before glancing up. “Do you have an appointment?”

“No.”

“Would you like to make one?”

“Not really, is there a chance I can see him now?”

The attendant doesn’t like that answer. “I’m sorry, but Mr. Blackwell is available by appointment only.”

Clarke rolls her eyes. “Okay, fine, when can I see him?”

She looks down and flips through the pages of a calendar. “He’s available next month.”

“What? Next _month_?”

“Look here missy,” the secretary stands to gain a better position of authority, “I don’t know who you think you are, barging in here and making demands, but you are free to leave.”

Clarke’s jaw goes slack. She resists the urge to shout back and tell the lady to fuck off because this is the only avenue to Lexa she has.

“I’m sorry,” Clarke says, lowering her voice. “My name is Clarke Griffin, Doctor Clarke Griffin, and I was deployed with the Infantry Division in Germany. I was provided Titus Blackwell’s name via Colonel Thelonious Jaha.”

Despite Clarke’s drastic change in tone, it doesn’t change the secretary’s answer.

“I appreciate the information, Doctor, but here at the OSS, we’re not allowed to make any exceptions to the rules.”

“There isn’t anything you can do? It’s very important to me. Please. I won’t take more than five minutes of his time.”

Somehow, someway, the secretary softens, and with a quick, “Excuse me,” she disappears behind a closed door, presumably headed toward Titus Blackwell’s office. As Clarke waits, her eyes rove the room. The OSS insignia is painted on the main wall, a yellow spade against a black oval. Below it, an official photo of President Truman, and next to it, Director of the OSS, William “Wild Bill” Donovan, followed by six other OSS executives. On the far right is a photo of Titus Blackwell, Director of Special Operations. Albeit Clarke sees little distinction between Titus and the rest—they are all middle-aged bald, white, men. Behind her, the door clicks open and Clarke gives the secretary her undivided attention.

“I’m sorry,” she says, “but Mr. Blackwell is very busy and he’s only taking appointments.”

“But—”

The secretary shakes her head in a slow and unmoving manner. Clarke sighs and nods, accepting the appointment. She is slow to exit the building, dragging her feet hoping for this “Titus Blackwell” to appear if she stuck around long enough. Clarke refuses to return home to wait another month and, in fact, makes it no further than 30 feet, sitting across the street on a corner bench and stares at the building. While it’s not Clarke’s intent to surveil the area as if she were a spy herself, this is what she ends up doing. Watching the foot traffic go by and paying attention to those who enter and exit the building. And by no surprise, she waits long enough to witness Titus Blackwell himself depart at the end of the day. He’s wearing a long black coat, a matching hat, and a briefcase in hand.

At first, Clarke hesitates, then quickly pursues him on foot. She scurries across the street, weaving between cars and people, eyes never leaving the back of his head. Clarke quickens her pace, hoping to catch up to Titus when she loses sight of him. She doesn’t understand how, looking left and right, before outright running, thinking he’s further ahead. Suddenly, a sturdy hand snatches her by the forearm and yanks her into a narrow alleyway. Clarke nearly trips, stumbling forward when the very recognizable click of a pistol sounds behind her. Instinctively, Clarke swings her hands up. “Please—”

“Shut up, who are you and why are you following me?”

“Oh, god…” Clarke's voice trembles, in fact, her entire body shakes. Two years in Germany and she’s never had a gun pointed at her; the irony of experiencing that now, here at home on American soil. “I—I—”

“ _Who_ sent you? The Russians? Germans? Italians?”

Worse, he thinks Clarke is a foreign spy. She worries that this dark alley will be the last thing she sees. And how she misses Lexa _so_ much. The warmth of their long nights, sitting across from each other in the library contrary to dying face down against this cold cobblestone beneath her. She imagines her lifeless body, blood draining through a bullet hole like the many, many soldiers she has seen.

“No—no one, nobody,” Clarke stutters and tries to look over her shoulder. “Please, I’m an American.”

“What do you want?”

“Mm—my name is Clarke Griffin, I—I’m looking for someone. She went by the name—by the name Lexa Hart.”

There’s a long, long pause. Clarke’s shoulders burn but she doesn’t dare let her hands down and tears are streaming down her face. She does not doubt that he can, and will, kill her.

“Turn around,” he instructs.

Clarke swallows and shuffles her feet until she’s facing him. The pistol is inches from her face, point blank, and it terrifies her further.

“And what business do you have with Lexa, hm?”

Clarke pauses, mostly petrified while held at gunpoint, but also unsure what to say or how to explain herself. Evidently, silence was the wrong answer.

“That’s what I thought…” he mutters and takes a step back to shoot.

“Wait! I love her!” Clarke blurts and slams her eyes shut, anticipating the pop of a gun. This was _not_ how Clarke imagined confessing her love for Lexa, but imminent death certainly has a way with the truth. When the gun doesn’t fire, Clarke opens her eyes one at a time. Does he believe her? There’s still a gun pointed at her face, and Clarke takes the opportunity to explain. “Please… I served overseas. In Germany. Lexa’s plane had crashed landed, you should know that, right? I was her attending physician. You must believe me, I’m an American, I swear. I—I received your name from Colonel Jaha, Thelonious Jaha.”

Clearly, Clarke is not a threat in her bumbling state and Titus drops the gun. Clarke exhales the biggest breath of relief she has ever held in life, though his eyes are no less intimidating as if he might change his mind any second. He looks at her with disdain; Clarke deduces it’s because she just outed herself, professing her love for someone of the same sex. But when her eyes meet his, the antipathy runs deeper.

“You’re the one,” he says in an accusatory tone, squinting as if he recognizes her.

“W—who?”

“You cost me my best agent, you know?”

“She’s… what? Is she alright?!”

“Fine—at least to the best of my knowledge.”

“Why do you say that?”

“After she returned from Germany, she requested reassignment—an intradepartmental transfer said she would only accept humanitarian missions.” Clarke remains silent as Titus continues to describe his resentment. “She was the most talented, the most gifted, crucial to us during the war. And those skills were wasted on spreading fucking warning pamphlets in Japan,” he spits. Titus holsters his pistol, though his eyes never leave Clarke’s until _something_ shifts within him. “You’ll likely find her in Washington,” he discloses.

Clarke’s eyes light up like a Christmas tree. “She’s here?”

“Washington State.”

_Oh._

“Her full name is Alexandria Hartwood, but she goes by several aliases, all variations of her full name: Lexa Hart, Lexa Woods, Alexa Hart or Woods, sometimes Andrea or Wooden, combinations thereof.”

“Why are you telling me all of this?”

“Is this not the information you seek?”

“It is, yes. I just didn’t think… after pointing a gun at me, I dunno…” Clarke mumbles, “I’m a mere stranger, I mean nothing to you.”

“While that may be true, it’s not about my regard for you but Lexa. When I last spoke to her, she appeared… disheartened,” he says. “Something had changed in her, she was no longer interested in killing—and now I see why, Doctor Griffin.”

Clarke swallows a guilty knot, remembering their long conversations in the silent nights: “ _A life is a life to me and though I’m here, assigned to save the lives of Americans, I would do the same for any life that falls in my hands. Even a Nazi soldier.”_ At the time, Clarke didn’t realize she was talking (and reasoning) with a spy, debating life and death, espionage and war strategies. Clearly, she had changed Lexa’s outlook and Titus is not happy about that.

“I’m… sorry?” She squeaks. 

“After Hiroshima, Lexa officially resigned from the OSS,” he exhales sadly. “You will never know of the sacrifices she has made for this country, for the precious ground you’re standing on. Regardless of her… lifestyle, she is no less deserving of the freedoms and happiness she has fought so hard to preserve. If I were you, I’d head toward the Pacific Northwest coast. She maintains a PO Box in a town by the name of Sekiu.”

It’s a distant light in a storm, and Clarke is determined to follow it to the end. In this case, across the country.

/

The train tracks rattle and it jolts Clarke awake. She had fallen asleep with her head pressed against the window and she opens her eyes to a sea of white. Endless snowdrifts crest across the flat, barren land. She’s on a transcontinental train to San Francisco. It was the quickest and most direct route west she could find, encompassing one overnighter in San Francisco, then, north on a nonstop single track to Seattle. And based on the unchanging scene out the window, she’s guessing she fell asleep somewhere in Nebraska and woke up in Wyoming. Clarke repositions her rucksack as a makeshift pillow against the window, leans her head against it, and falls asleep again.

It’s dusk when the train arrives in San Francisco and while she’s no longer traversing the Great Plans, there remains a bite to the evening air. The cold Pacific offshore wind whips across the Golden Gate City, and it smells like salt and ocean spray. After spending days crammed in a boxcar, the crisp air is uplifting and better yet, the smell of the sea is reminiscent of home and Clarke takes in a deep breath. She’s never been to the west coast. The air is different with less humidity and a sharper chill, though in a good way. It’s refreshing.

“Doc!”

Clarke looks beyond the crowd. She had written Jackson stating that she’ll be in San Francisco overnight and he was overjoyed to host. She spots him instantly, standing slightly taller than the surrounding average, and waves frantically.

“Jackson,” Clarke smiles.

The hug is warm and welcoming. Undoubtedly, Miller is beside him and Clarke nods a friendly greeting.

“How the heck are you!?”

“Good,” Clarke replies automatically, then drops a hint of truth as they turn to walk. “Surviving.”

Jackson tsks, and throws his arm playfully around Clarke. “Well, we’re going to do some livin’ tonight!”

Clarke doesn’t know what Jackson has planned tonight, but she’s guessing it’ll be a night out. They stop briefly at Jackson and Miller’s apartment on a street with a cute name, Polk Street, where Clarke has a chance to shower and wash her clothes. Dinner is spent on the wharf and Clarke enjoys a hot bowl of San Francisco’s iconic clam chowder sourdough bread bowl. It’s delicious and admitted rivals her mom’s homemade Chesapeake chowder.

They continue into a unique part of San Francisco, an area spanning no more than a few blocks evolved from the notorious Barbary Coast, previously the city’s red-light district born during the Gold Rush of 1849. And the closer they get, the closer Jackson and Miller get, drifting together from bumping shoulders to now, holding hands. Suddenly, Clarke notices more and more joined couples, queer couples, as if they’ve passed an invisible plane void of societal rules and gender construct. Men are dressed as women; women are dressed as men. And variations between. The street is invigorating with a liveliness Clarke has never experienced. They turn a corner and enter a nightclub by the name of Finocchio’s. And if street life wasn’t already exhilarating enough, Finocchio’s is downright mind-blowing. Men are performing as women in elegant costumes and elaborate makeup. The crowd is shouting and cheering at the stage. It’s difficult not to smile, the energy is contagious, and Clarke watches the performance in awe.

Meanwhile, Jackson thrusts a drink into her hands, and Clarke takes a small sip. She has no idea what it is, but it tastes good and she trusts Jackson. They stay for several more performances before descending further where there’s a dancefloor in the basement. It’s populated by mostly men, shirtless men (and in some cases pant-less) dancing _._ Clarke avoids peering into the dark corners where there seems to be much more than just dancing. She stays along the sidelines, nursing her first drink when Jackson and Miller peel away onto the dance floor. Clarke is content watching, taking in and digesting the novel environment when she is approached by one of the few women in the establishment.

“Name’s Niylah, would you like another drink?”

“Oh,” Clarke looks down at her dwindling drink. She doesn’t drink often, already feeling the effects of her first glass, but still of sound enough mind to make a sensible decision. “No, thank you.”

“You from out of town?”

“Yeah,” Clarke nods, and she tips her head at Jackson and Miller who are grinding against each other on the dance floor, “visiting some friends.”

“Why don’t you ditch these loverboys and come with me?”

Clarke smirks, flattered, but she has no interest in going home with anyone tonight. “Sorry, I’m just here for the night.”

“Won’t be far,” Niylah continues, “just down the street to a place called Mona’s.” Niylah dips closer to Clarke’s ear, keeping a respectful distance. “It’s for women. Come on, you should have a look, especially if this is your only night in town.”

Though her curiosity is piqued, Clarke shakes her head.

Niylah shrugs, unoffended, “Suit yourself, maybe I’ll see you there later?” She says in an open invite and leaves.

Clarke stays glued to the bar, seated at the corner when her lack of sleep gets the best of her. While she slept on the train, it’s not proper sleep, it’s unrestful sleep. Undeniably, she hasn’t slept well in months since Lexa’s departure. She tells Jackson and Miller that she’ll meet them back at the apartment, reassuring Jackson that she remembers the way home, and she’s more than capable of getting herself back.

Stepping outside, Clarke peers left and right to cross the street when she spots a bright neon sign. Niylah wasn’t exaggerating when she said Mona’s was just down the street. Intrigued, Clarke finds herself walking toward Mona’s like a moth to a flame. She convinces herself she’ll be only just a few minutes.

At Mona’s, the scene is equally unorthodox where the inverse holds true: women are dressed as men. Clarke has never laid eyes on so many women clad in trousers, blazers, and ties, smoking cigarettes and drinking whiskey, with hair slicked back to a shine. Their eyes, their _gazes_ are intimidating; it’s clear Clarke is a newcomer, an unfamiliar face with an outfit that sticks out like a sore thumb. Like Finocchio’s, Clarke finds a quiet seat along the bar, too fascinated by the culture and community to partake. She doesn’t dance, doesn’t drink, only watches in wonder and astonishment, taking in the sight of women with women. Unlike Finocchio’s, Clarke can’t look away, staring, gawking even, and embarrassed at her lack of self-control. She’s mesmerized by the open kissing and touching, the displays of affection without regard for concealment. Clarke swallows thickly when hands roam under clothes to cup and squeeze breasts. Her heart rate quickens and breathing shallows as fingers tangle in thickets of hair, necks crane, and tongues lick. The intimacy is captivating. 

Without a doubt, she thinks of Lexa and wonders if Lexa would frequent a place like this. Her thoughts get the best of her when she thinks she sees Lexa walk in through the front door. It’s a woman in an aviator jacket with dark and wild curly hair. Upon closer study, the jacket is purely for fashion, albeit an attractive look that Clarke is partial to. The ersatz aviator approaches and offers to buy Clarke a drink; Clarke almost says yes, eyes fixated on the faux fur lining of the coat. Clarke thinks of her kiss with Lexa and anything resembling that moment is certainly tempting.

“Uh… no thank you,” Clarke replies. “But I like your jacket.”

“Thanks,” she replies smiling and does a 360 spin, “I just got it. Have a pleasant night now.”

“You, too.”

Soon, Clarke realizes she’s spent more than her allotted few minutes. She’s still tired with an early train to catch tomorrow and exits just as quietly as she entered.

When she arrives back at Jackson and Miller’s apartment, they’re not there. Nevertheless, Clarke climbs into the pull-out sofa and closes her eyes. Despite being physically tired, Clarke’s mind is racing, buzzing with images from the evening. The kissing, the touching. Clarke has yet to allow herself such erotic thoughts, it’s one thing to imagine them but another to see them, and it becomes too easy to envision herself with Lexa the same way. To reacquaint her lips with Lexa’s, remembering how _soft_ they were. She recalls how good Lexa smelled, and wonders how it would feel to bury herself in Lexa—to press her face in Lexa’s hair and let Lexa kiss her, full mouth and full tongue.

As Clarke allows her mind to run loose, her hand travels south and slips underneath her waistband. With Lexa at the forefront of her thoughts, it’s no surprise Clarke finds herself dripping wet. She imagines Lexa touching her, slender and sure fingers making their way between Clarke’s folds. There’s no need to tease or play, the urge is overwhelming and Clarke slides into herself. She curls her fingers and thrusts exactly where she needs it, picturing Lexa through and through. Lexa’s mouth, hands, and body. Clarke is close, and she bites her lower lip, reaching for that release. And when she comes, she does so with Lexa’s name falling from her lips.

/

In the morning, Clarke leaves Jackson a thank you note enveloping a small amount of cash for the hospitality. He and Miller are sound asleep, Clarke estimates they arrived home around five in the morning and it’s currently seven.

Alone, she hurries to the train station. The sky is grey and threatening to rain. Thankfully, it starts after she has boarded the train, droplets pelting and blurring the windows. Despite the murky skies, the Pacific Northwest proves more scenic than Clarke expected. As the tracks carry her north, the foliage turns lusher and taller, firs and pines and spruce, mountainous landscapes cast against a steep and rocky coastline.

The rain never abates and by the time Clarke reaches Seattle, it’s pouring buckets. She purchases an umbrella from the first stand she encounters, which happens to be a souvenir stand arranged with postcards, trinkets, and keepsakes. Her eyes settle on a postcard titled _SEKIU, WASHINGTON,_ a photo of a small marina dotted with several boats and a long lumber dock. It looks peaceful, a quaint town.

“And this too,” Clarke says and pulls the card from the stack.

The cashier makes a puzzled face. “What’s in Sekiu? ‘Cause I’ve been there, and let me tell you, it ain’t much. Just a loggin’ town, a little bit of fishing.”

 _More than you will ever know_.

“A friend,” Clarke replies.

“Some friend…” he mutters while ringing up the change. “Anything else?”

“Actually, yes. What’s the best way to reach Sekiu? I noticed this is as far as the passenger liners go.”

He nods, agreeing with Clarke’s statement. “They’re all loggin’ trains that go that way. You could try the docks, them fishin’ boats go up that way all the time.

Clarke furrows her brow, then feels stupid for not realizing boats as an option earlier. “Thank you.”

The trek down to the harbor is wet. The umbrella only does so much, keeping most of Clarke’s upper half dry, but her knees and especially her feet, are soaked. And one-by-one, boat-by-boat, Clarke knocks on each like a door salesperson.

“Hi, I’m looking for passage to Sekiu. Would you happen to be going that way?”

“By chance are you headed north?”

“I can help handle a few lines, no?”

The outlook is as grim as the sky. Clarke walks up and down the creaky docks, receiving head shakes and doors closed in her face. Her shoes are a sopping mess, and Clarke looks out across the marina. Most of the vessels are tightly moored, closed off to the elements when she spots one at the very end of the last row. Two people are loading supplies onto a vessel and by the looks of it, preparing to get underway. Hurrying, Clarke makes her way to the edge of the bay towards the boat with the name that reads _Lincoln’s Ark._

“Hello?”

A gentleman in an iconic yellow hooded raincoat responds without looking. “Sorry, but we’re fresh out—no fish, no crab. We’re headed out now, try back in a few weeks.”

“Uh… sorry, but I’m not interested in what you have, but where you’re going. I’m trying to get to Sekiu.”

When he turns to look at Clarke, she can see he has kind eyes.

“Please,” Clarke says. “I have some money, and I don’t mind handling lines—I used to fish with my father out east.”

“Linc!” A woman yells from inside. “Did you grab the extra jugs of freshwater?!”

“Yeah! I got ‘em right here!” He yells back, wielding large portable jugs in each hand. And they don’t look light.

“Then what the hell is taking you so long, I told you I wanted to leave yesterday and now we’re caught in this rainsto—” The woman steps out onto the deck and immediately spots Clarke, giving her the same initial response Lincoln did. “Sorry, we’re out of everything. We’ll be back in a few weeks.”

“She’s looking for a ride to Sekiu,” Lincoln responds for her and further argues Clarke’s case. “Suppose we can swing that way? Said she had some money and would help handle lines. What’d you say, Octavia?”

Evidently, Clarke is at the mercy of this woman named Octavia. She stares Clarke down with sharp eyes, but eventually, grants Clarke permission aboard with a slight nod of the chin.

“Thank you,” Clarke exhales, and steps on board. “Thank you so much.”

“You can drop your pack off in there,” Octavia nods her head inside. “There’s a spare stateroom on the right, use the top bunk, the bottom is used for storage, don’t touch anything. Then come help us load the rest of this stuff.”

Eagerly, Clarke nods.

“What’s your name?”

“Clarke.”

“I’m Octavia, and that’s Lincoln out there.”

Despite the name of the vessel, clearly, Octavia is the one in charge.

“You don’t know how much this means to me,” Clarke says, “thanks again.”

Octavia nods, analyzing Clarke’s sad state. Clarke appears homeless (technically she is), and her shoes squish, leaving a small puddle with each step that she feels bad about but won’t hesitate to go back out in the rain to help Lincoln.

“Hey, wait,” Octavia says as Clarke is about to go outside to help. “I got a pair of extra boots in there—if you want, and you can use my raincoat when you go back out, it’s right there on the wall.”

Clarke nods, “Dry feet would be nice.”

The fishing vessel spans 80-feet with an open back deck, a small wheelhouse at the bow, two staterooms, a dual shower/toilet, and a small galley. Once inside, Clarke can tell this isn’t just their place of work, but their home. Personal belongings and keepsakes are scattered about, there’s an early photo of Lincoln and Octavia thumbtacked to the wall. They look happy.

Oddly enough, the closer Clarke gets to Lexa, the more she longs for her. The ache grows with each passing day, and Clarke hopes to soon be in her company. She hasn’t entertained the possibility of not being able to find Lexa. It’s not an option for her and at this point, she would gladly return to the heart of war to be reunited.

Clarke shrugs off her pack, unfortunately, waxed-canvas has its limits and while it serves as a good rain deterrent, it’s not completely waterproof and most of her clothes are damp. Thankfully, Clarke finds a pair of dry socks embedded in the middle and she puts them on, slips Octavia’s spare boots overtop, and heads outside to help. Lincoln has since turned his attention to the crab pots, carrying them in stacks twice his height. With Clarke’s help, they load all the supplies onto the boat in half the time and set sail.

The journey to Sekiu is about two weeks, but no less than a few hours into the voyage, Lincoln gets hurt. Octavia was at the helm while Lincoln was strategically dropping crab pots into the water, tossing them overboard when a sharp edge of a broken pot caught him by the forearm and left a long, gnarly gash.

“Ow, fuck!” Lincoln yells.

Clarke is down below finding space to hang-dry her clothes when it happens and rushes outside without hesitation. Octavia has since stopped the engines and is wrapping a shirt around Lincoln’s arm. They’re arguing about whether they should turn around to seek medical attention. Neither wants to head back, the water is their livelihood and that’s days lost. Thankfully, Clarke can do something about it.

“Let me see it,” Clarke says.

“What, no,” Octavia replies. “What if he bleeds to death? He could have sliced an artery—look at all this blood. We’re going to have to turn back.”

“Not necessarily, unwrap it and let me see,” Clarke insists.

“What are you a fucking doctor or something?” Octavia spits.

“Yes, actually.”

Octavia's eyes widen. Clearly, it wasn’t the answer she expected, and her guard slowly lowers. “Oh.”

“Sorry, we haven’t been more formally introduced, but I was a doctor stationed in Germany during the war. I promise, whatever it is, I can probably take care of it,” Clarke offers and smiles.

Unwrapping the shirt, Clarke assesses the extent of the injury. The cut is rough and jagged, it runs deep into the muscle tissue but looks like it just missed the artery. “He’ll live,” she says without hesitation, “but it will need stitches.”

“Stitches?” Lincoln repeats. “We don’t have stitches onboard.”

“You have fishing line, don’t you?”

Both Lincoln and Octavia don’t seem amenable to that idea. Though crude, it’s effective.

“It’s that or we turn back around—which I’m not interested in either,” Clarke says.

Octavia looks at Lincoln, “What do you think?”

Lincoln nods, “Grab the fishing line, O.”

“And do you have any alcohol aboard?” Clarke asks. “Preferably something strong.”

“We have some vodka.”

“Perfect.”

In less than an hour, Clarke has Lincoln stitched up and they’re back underway. Lincoln is now manning the helm and steering with his good arm. Clarke is out on deck helping Octavia lift and toss more crab pots overboard.

“So, what brings an ex-war doc all the way out here?” Octavia asks.

They simultaneously release a pot with a big splash.

“I’m looking for someone,” Clarke says.

“In Sekiu?”

“As far as I know.”

“What’s their name?”

“Why?” Clarke gets immediately defensive, and she’s not sure why.

“Sekiu’s a small town, not much going on. Lincoln spent some time there, he might know ‘em.”

Still, Clarke remains silent, looking down and preparing another crab pot. “Her name is Alexandria,” she says softly. “I know her as Lexa.”

“Lincoln!” Octavia shouts and it slightly startles Clarke, not expecting such an immediate reaction.

The bridge door swings open and Lincoln pokes his head out. “What?”

“Hey, you know an Alexandria or Lexa up in Sekiu?”

Lincoln dips his head, searching his memory, “Maybe?”

“How do you mean ‘maybe’?” Octavia responds, “Either you know someone or not.”

“Well…” He scratches his beard. “There’s a woman who lives way out at the end of the road, would sometimes stop by the boat for some fresh fish—she was kind of weird.”

“Weird?” Clarke echoes.

“Not weird,” Lincoln swats the air, “bad word choice. Like… she only answered my questions with questions, not much for small talk, closed off as if she had a bunch of secrets.”

 _Sounds like Lexa._ Clarke’s eyes widen and her heart rate doubles as if she’s hit the goldmine.

Lincoln shrugs, “Sorry, but I never got a name, so I can’t be sure.”

“Don’t be sorry, that was very helpful,” Clarke replies. “Thank you.”

/

Clarke enjoys her time aboard _Lincoln’s Ark._ Not only are Octavia and Lincoln good company, but the voyage takes her back to her roots. Sea-time is easy, freeing, and the two weeks underway fly by. She briefly entertains the idea of changing her occupation to become a full-time fisherwoman, but her mother would kill her to let all her medical training go to waste. Plus, Clarke still wants to make an impact on saving lives. So fishing and sailing remain on her list of hobbies.

It’s raining when they arrive in Sekiu, Clarke’s not surprised. It had rained all but two days on their journey, most had been light and drizzly, the negligible kind, except it’s pouring today. A storm is approaching, and they made it into the harbor just in time for safe refuge.

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay on board and at least wait out the rain?” Octavia asks.

Clarke shakes her head while she’s packing her things. “Thanks, but no thanks. You’ve been kind enough to take me all this way. And I have an umbrella.”

“That umbrella isn’t going to do you shit.”

“It’s just water, I’ll be fine,” Clarke replies.

“At least take my boots.”

“O—”

“Just take them! You’re as stubborn as an ox.”

“Takes one to know one,” Clarke says, smirking. You really get to know someone after being crammed with them on a boat for two weeks. “Then at least let me pay you for them.”

“You’ve left us more than enough—and you’re a good sailor. It was nice having the extra help. You know, you’re more than welcome back anytime.”

“Thanks, I really appreciate that,” Clarke says. She shoulders her pack, ready to brave the storm. Just as she steps onto solid land, Lincoln yells.

“Hey, Clarke!”

“Yeah?”

“I hope you find what you’re looking for, but just in case… well, let’s just say we’ll be here for a few days to wait out the storm,” Lincoln says, letting Clarke know she has a place to return.

“Thanks, Linc,” Clarke smiles. She hopes to see them again. Someday. Just not today. Looking ahead, Clarke pops her umbrella and heads towards town.

First stop, the post office. Clarke could only hope to be so lucky as to walk in the same moment Lexa might check her PO box, but when she enters, it’s empty. The bell on the door chimes and even then, no attendant appears from behind the postal window.

“Hello?” Clarke pokes her head through the window. A small stack of mail has yet to be sorted, boxes rest in a pile, and there’s no human in sight. Outside is much of the same, it’s a ghost town. The rain intensifies, tattering against the roof. With nowhere to sit, Clarke putzes around for fifteen minutes or so, pacing within the confines of the office when a postal worker returns.

“Can I help you?”

“Hi, I’m looking for someone, I was hoping you could point me in the right direction?”

“Name?”

Clarke pauses, unsure of which name to refer to Lexa as but eventually goes with the full name Titus gave her. “Alexandria Hartwood.”

“No, I meant, what’s your name?”

“Mine?” Clarke's brow knits together.

“Yes, name, please?” He repeats as if he was searching through a stack of correspondence.

“Clarke Griffin?” Clarke says, unsure why she replies as if she doesn’t know her own name.

He nods his head to the right, “Down that way, ‘bout two miles, take a right at the intersection.”

“Uh… excuse me?” Clarke’s mouth falls agape—Is this really happening?

“Like I said, down that way, turn right at the intersection. Can’t miss it.”

Clarke doesn’t waste another second and is out the door. She walks at a brisk pace when a large gust of wind flips her umbrella inside out. “Fuck!” Clarke tries to reach for a corner, but a second, more unexpected gust takes it straight out of her hands and sends it sailing into a tree. “Oh, goddammit!” With nothing to shield her from the elements, Clarke hunkers down into her coat, though it doesn’t do much. Within minutes, she’s soaked to the bone save for the boots Octavia gave her. She stares down at the wet road when it dead-ends into a T with no other option than to turn right or left. As directed, Clarke turns right, and the road becomes less distinguished, the dirt path narrows to one that’s not commonly traveled.

She smells it before she sees it, a small cottage at the end of the road with a tendril of smoke emerging from the chimney. The postal worker was right. You can’t miss it because it’s the only structure at the end of the road, resting on a small point of land otherwise surrounded by water. Clarke’s heart skips a beat; the moment stops her dead in her tracks. She stares until, somehow, she gathers the wherewithal to keep going. She descends a set of stone steps, which lead directly to the door, and slowly, she raises her hand and knocks.

Waiting, Clarke hears footsteps coming from the other side. She inhales a shaky breath, and that’s when Lexa opens the door.

“Clarke…” Lexa whispers and her eyes widen with disbelief.

Time stands still.

Clarke envisioned this moment a million times but never thought past it. She stands and stares, feet rooted to the ground as raindrops fall from her eyelashes. Her body shakes and her lips quiver either from the cold or pure shock—probably a bit of both.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” Clarke stammers.

It’s all she manages to say when another beat of silence passes.

“Christ, Clarke, it’s pouring out—” Lexa reaches, barely brushing Clarke’s forearm, “—come in.”

Clarke takes two steps in, her clothes are soaked and there’s a puddle forming at her feet.

“I—um, I’m going to grab a towel,” Lexa says and disappears into the next room.

Alone in Lexa’s living room, Clarke drops her pack, and her eyes rove: an armchair by the fireplace with a book turned upside-down; a desk with a half-written letter; a small kitchenette with a red kettle on the stove; and books. Tons and tons of books. Lexa has an entire wall that serves as a dedicated bookshelf, filled from top to bottom. It’s a picturesque scene that Clarke adores.

Lexa emerges with a towel and carefully wraps it around Clarke, pulling it snug over her shoulders, and ever so gently, begins to dab the droplets on Clarke’s cheek. They’re close, inches away and Clarke studies Lexa before her. Her green eyes are round and large, and her lips are thick and full. She looks more beautiful than Clarke remembers, and without a second thought, Clarke leans forward to kiss her.

It catches Lexa off guard, she’s taken aback and breaks the kiss. At first, Clarke worries she’s too late or that this isn’t what Lexa wanted, but as she looks into Lexa’s eyes, she watches them well and a single tear tracks down Lexa’s cheek. It breaks Clarke’s heart and she wants to make it better. More determined, Clarke takes a step forward, cups Lexa’s jaw, and kisses her again. This time, Lexa reciprocates. It starts slow and languid, timid even, but long and thorough. “Mmm…” Clarke lets out a moan she didn’t know she was holding. Lexa’s lips are _so_ soft. It leaves Clarke wanting more and like the flip of a switch, it becomes a mad rush, scrambling to reunite. Hands tangle in hair, teeth clatter, and tongues glide. They kiss without abandonment.

Clarke finds herself fumbling with the buttons on Lexa’s shirt and pushing it over her shoulders. In fact, she’s pushing Lexa back with each step, pushing and pushing. Clarke is partially worried that she’s coming on too strong, but she can’t stop. She _craves_ Lexa. That’s when she realizes Lexa is also pulling. Pulling her clothes off, pulling her toward the bedroom, and pulling Clarke on top of her. And when Lexa brings their naked bodies flush, Clarke’s mind goes blank.

“Oh…” Clarke gasps. Lexa’s skin is hot like fire and it sets Clarke alight. She’s straddled across Lexa’s lap and wraps her arms around Lexa’s shoulders. Never has someone felt this way against her—then again, never has Clarke been in love. Their bond runs deep as if rediscovering a connection that’s centuries old. It’s overwhelming and they’ve only just begun. Lexa drifts to her neck, sucking at the pulse point that lies beneath. It’s dizzying, and Clarke drops her head back. It exposes more skin that Lexa takes advantage of. She licks down to Clarke’s collarbone, across her chest, pausing briefly at the top of her breast. Lexa’s movements are slow—too slow—she’s holding back, carefully gauging Clarke, and looks up as if seeking permission.

“Touch me,” Clarke says.

Lexa nuzzles the underside of her jaw, and Clarke shivers.

“Where?” She whispers.

Kiss.

“Anywhere,” Clarke grants. “Everywhere.”

She watches Lexa’s eyes grow dark, her hands cup Clarke’s breasts, one in each hand, and gently thumbs circles over her nipples. Clarke’s breathing hitches, her mouth falls agape, and her eyelids slip at the sensation. Lexa reacquaints their lips, kissing her long and hard, before bringing a nipple up to her mouth.

“Sss…” Clarke hisses. The warmth in her lower belly grows, it coils and tightens, and Clarke aches for more contact. She drives her hips down into Lexa’s pelvis, over and over, and Lexa matches her pace in a constant grind, all while alternating her mouth between Clarke’s breasts. Lexa’s touch is sure and strong, kneading and cupping Clarke’s ass and thighs. Soon, her hand disappears between Clarke’s legs and gently, Lexa takes Clarke’s clit between her fingers.

“Lexa…”

“I’m here,” Lexa whispers against her ear.

Lexa works her slowly, she builds Clarke with delicate of movements. Mere brushes of her fingertips take Clarke closer and closer to the edge, dipping and gathering wetness. Clarke grinds into Lexa, chasing each sensation that’s ever-fleeting when finally, Lexa slips inside.

“Ohhh…” It’s a long moan Clarke has never heard herself make. 

There’s a momentary pause; Lexa lets Clarke adjust before starting a soft pump, attentive to Clarke’s every whine, whimper, and moan. The fill, the stretch, the _pressure_. Clarke’s orgasm nears with each successive thrust, Lexa fills her to the brim—and then some, kissing Clarke’s mouth and neck and breasts. Clarke can hardly withstand it, trembling at the edge, when finally she breaks.

“Lexa!” Clarke clings to Lexa like a lifeline, burying her face into Lexa’s neck and digging crescent moons into Lexa’s shoulders. She collapses as she comes and Lexa is there to catch her, cradling and rolling her onto her back. Still, Clarke’s body continues to shudder at the brink of pleasure; Clarke can’t believe it. Lexa works and works her, driving fingers deeper and palming her clit until Clarke comes again. “Fuck!”

Clarke never believed in soul mates, at least not until now when she knows she’s looking at hers, staring into Lexa’s eyes, and touching souls. Clarke tilts her chin up for a kiss, and Lexa meets her there. It’s a slow make out compared to the earlier rush, a transitional lull until Clarke rolls them back around so that she’s on top again. It’s her turn to explore Lexa’s skin with her mouth, tracing Lexa’s jawline and kissing down her chest. Clarke’s hands roam from Lexa’s hips to her sides and up her stomach when Clarke touches Lexa’s bullet scar. Clarke gasps. How could she forget? It’s what brought Lexa to her—she recalls the day Lexa arrived with blood pouring from the wound. A memory that now terrifies her.

“Clarke?” Lexa cups her face. “What’s wrong?”

“I…” Clarke closes her eyes and pushes the thought away, “…nothing.” Her words don’t match her actions when she concentrates her touch over Lexa’s scar, running her fingertips across it. “This healed well,” Clarke can’t help but comment.

“I had a good doctor,” Lexa quips.

Clarke smiles and without breaking eye contact, she dips down to kiss it. From there, her mouth travels along Lexa’s stomach, dropping more kisses until she reaches Lexa’s nipple and softly takes it into her mouth. It hardens against her tongue and Clarke palms the opposite breast, pinching and rolling to the same effect. Lexa’s chest heaves, rising and falling erratically, and her hips cant upward, desperate for contact. Traces of Lexa’s arousal tint Clarke’s thighs.

“Clarke, please…” Lexa spreads her legs wider, encouraging Clarke to go between.

While Clarke doesn’t doubt her knowledge of human anatomy, formal medical training doesn’t exactly prepare you for this. And in this new, unfamiliar moment, Clarke’s hands shake.

“Sorry… I don’t really what I’m doing,” Clarke says, embarrassed to admit.

To Clarke’s relief, Lexa is patient, and she looks at Clarke with adoration and understanding. “Here,” Lexa offers and guides Clarke’s hand down between her legs. “Like this,” she says, and places Clarke’s fingers on her center of pleasure and starts a small circular pattern. They explore together, Lexa shows her the way and Clarke follows intently. She watches in awe as Lexa’s eyelids flutter, biting and licking her lips until her hand falls away and it’s just Clarke. She focuses on the swollen bud between her fingertips, going faster and faster. Lexa writhes under her, and Clarke relishes every gasp, hitch, and moan. “Oh, Clarke.” Lexa’s grip tightens in her hair and she pulls Clarke down for a kiss. It’s rough and messy. “I’m coming,” she exhales just before her body shudders and her thighs tighten around Clarke’s wrist. Clarke sustains Lexa’s orgasm as best as she can, pressing into it before Lexa’s body falls slack.

Sweat glimmers across Lexa’s skin, her mouth is parted and her eyes are shut. She’s beautiful, and Clarke doesn’t want to be done. She wants to keep going, her hand lingers with a need to feel Lexa from the inside. Lexa’s is so soft, so warm and wet and inviting. She’s dripping, and Clarke slides her fingers through the essence, teasing when she carefully pushes in.

“Mmph… god you feel good.”

Pleased, Clarke dips to recapture a nipple in her mouth while pressing in deeper. Lexa falls pliant to her touch, riding the length of Clarke’s fingers, and the pace quickens from long and slow strokes to short and fast. Lexa’s breathing turns ragged, and she moans Clarke’s name with every affirmation.

“Yes, Clarke… faster, Clarke… harder, Clarke…”

Clarke doesn’t stop, she does everything Lexa says, pumping faster and harder. For the second time tonight, Clarke watches Lexa unravel, and it’s no less captivating than the first. The way Lexa moves underneath her, twisting and turning. Clarke never imagined such a feeling: to be the one pleasing Lexa; to want as much as she is wanted; to love and be loved.

Gently drawing out, Clarke snuggles into Lexa, resting her head on Lexa’s chest. She listens to Lexa’s heart rate return to normal, her breathing evens, and it induces a sense of calm within Clarke. Though she’s never been here before, she feels at home. It’s warm and cozy compared to outside, where it’s dark and cold, and rain continues to pour with the whipping wind. Inside, they lay content in silence. There’s so much to say, yet nothing needs to be said at all. Only looks and touches. Clarke has since propped herself on her elbow and plays with a loose strand of Lexa’s hair, twirling it in her finger and letting it fall.

“Are you really here?” Lexa says. “Because if this is another dream, I never want to wake.”

“You dream about me?” Clarke ticks her eyebrow, smirking.

Lexa blushes, her cheeks and ears color red, and it’s the most adorable sight. “Dream of you… think of you… both,” Lexa quietly confesses. “The last I expected was you on my doorstep.”

“Sorry—I just had to find you,” Clarke says.

Lexa arches her brow, “I imagine that couldn’t have been easy.”

“It wasn’t, but nothing was going to stop me. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize for who you are,” Lexa says. “That’s why I love you.”

The words mean more to Clarke than she can comprehend, and a tear trickles from her face. “I love you, too.”

Lexa smiles with mirth in her eyes. “So, I take it you’re not interested in the guest room?”

Clarke bursts into laughter, happiness bubbles from within, and she leans down to kiss Lexa. They’re small, meaningful pecks when Lexa cradles her jaw and brings her closer still. Kissing and rolls them back around. Lexa’s mouth begins to wander, remapping Clarke’s neck and breasts when she comes back to nuzzle her ear with a question Clarke has never heard.

“Can I go down on you?”

Clarke doesn’t understand. “What… does that mean?”

“Can I put my mouth on you?” Lexa says and looks down between them.

_Oh._

“I’ve… never had anybody do that before,” Clarke replies, and she swears Lexa lick her lips and swallow as if she were parched and dying of thirst. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Lexa double checks gently.

Clarke nods, “Yes.”

Slowly, Lexa descends, kissing below her navel and the apex of Clarke’s legs. Clarke never realized how sensitive she was in those places, places no one has ever been, and goosebumps rise across her skin. 

“Oh, god…” Clarke shivers.

Lexa stops and looks up, “Still okay?”

Clarke nods, “Yeah, it’s just… sensitive.”

“I’ll be gentle,” Lexa says and drops another kiss, the closest one yet. Her eyes never leave Clarke’s, and she reaches up to intertwine fingers. Clarke’s grip tightens, preparing herself for the unknown as she watches Lexa stick out her tongue and slowly make contact.

“Ohh… fuck…” Clarke’s eyes slam shut. Clarke can’t tell whether it’s Lexa’s tongue or lips or mouth, but everything is so _soft._ And the warmth is unbelievable. Lexa moves ever so gently, smooth in her approach with light flickers of tongue. Soon, the pressure grows, and she’s making full laps, flatting her tongue in thick passes. Clarke rides Lexa’s face, and without realizing it, she threads her fingers into Lexa’s hair, urging for more when Lexa takes Clarke fully into her mouth and sucks.

“Oh my god!” Clarke screams, though the most ungodly noises escaper her. 

Lexa sucks harder and faster until Clarke’s quivering knees buckle, and she comes spilling into her mouth. Still, Lexa doesn’t stop, drinking and drinking, and lapping up everything Clarke gives her. “Mmpphhh…” Clarke’s back arches and she rides Lexa’s face to the very end, pressing and grinding till her body is spent. She slumps in exhaustion, unable to open her eyes when she feels Lexa crawl her way up with kisses.

Clarke doesn’t remember falling asleep, but for the first time in months, her heart and mind are at peace knowing that she’ll be waking up to Lexa. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Evidently, this fic doesn't want to end. There's a bit more story to tell, which means there's one more chapter. Thanks for reading!
> 
> History facts I learned while writing this fic:
> 
> 1) Finnochio's and Mona's were real establishments in the 1940s that contributed to San Fran's queer culture near what is known today as the Castro District.
> 
> 2) Before the US bombed Japan, they dropped pamplets known as "LeMay leaflets" to warn civilians about the coming atomic bomb and to evacuate the cities. 
> 
> 3) A "blood chit" was carried by military pilots in various languages in case they were shot down and found by a civilian. A blood chit used by UN pilots in the Korean war would say, "I am an American (United Nations) pilot. My plane has been shot down and I am helpless, but I want to get back and fight again for the peace of the world and your country. If you will help me and yourselves by getting me to the nearest American unit, my Government will reward you."


End file.
